


A Distortion of Time

by Marian_De_Haan



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Mystery, Post-Episode: s02e02 Shadow, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-24 23:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marian_De_Haan/pseuds/Marian_De_Haan
Summary: Due to a time travel experiment, Blake and his team find themselves in what appears to be Medieval England and are expected to solve a murder case.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Published in Avon #26. Reproduced here on the author's behalf and with author's permission.

"I told you to choose plain clothes!" Blake's voice boomed from the teleport room. Vila could hear the words even from the end of the corridor. "They are simple people."

  
"Evidently, or they wouldn't want to deal with you!" Avon sounded even more scornful than usual.  
  
Vila hurried forward - a row between Blake and Avon was always fun to watch.

"You know how important it is that we get others behind us, Avon." Now Blake was using his most persuasive voice. "Especially now our dealings with the Terra Nostra came to nothing. We can't fight the Federation on our own. I need allies, a base - Simantran is ideal for that purpose."  
  
Vila reached the teleport room. Blake wore a full-length plain black gown. The hood, hanging down his back, looked large enough to cover his head completely, unruly curls and all. Avon, still in his thigh-length boots, was dressed like a prince. His blue tunic was decorated with red and green gemstones and lavishly embroidered with gold thread. The garment was held together at the waist with a silver belt. A dark blue cloak was draped round his neck and fastened with a heavy golden clasp. From his belt hung a large embroidered purse. Orac had warned them that they were supposed to take their own knife, mug, and spoon with them. Apparently their hosts' hospitality didn't stretch to providing those items. From the bulge of the purse Vila suspected that Avon had squeezed in a Liberator gun too, complete with powerpack, contravening Blake's order not to carry any weapons as a show of goodwill. Vila couldn't blame him. In addition to the mug and cutlery, his own - plain - purse contained some useful lockpicking tools. Confident that his mouse-brown cloak, russet tunic and stout boots could offend no-one, Vila stepped into the room. Of course, nobody took any notice of him.  
  
"You heard Orac," Blake continued to Avon. "If we want to get the Simantrans on our side, we have to adjust to their standards."  
  
"YOU may do so." Avon folded his arms. "I am NOT simple and I'm not going to dress like a pauper!"  
  
"Nor am I, Blake!" came Jenna's voice from the doorway. Vila turned - and blinked, for a moment dazed by the splendour of her attire. Her dress, with a tight fitting bodice and long, full flowing skirt, was of a bright, pinkish red. Its broad collar and cuffs were decorated with colourful gemstones. Even larger jewels decorated her girdle, which was fastened with a shining golden clasp. A scarlet cloak hung from her shoulders, held in place by two matching gold filigree clasps. She took a bracelet from the rack and went to stand beside Avon. If this was a dress contest, it would be difficult to judge between them, Vila thought. He'd vote for Jenna, but only because she was prettier. Blake should have known better than to want to make her dress in plain garb!  
  
Before Blake could reply, Orac declared, *The adornment of the clothes is not important, provided they resemble those worn in Earth's Medieval times.*  
  
"Why didn't you say so?" Vila complained, casting a baleful eye at the machine placed on the console. "I could've dressed like Sir Jocelyn from MANOR MAIDENS."  
  
"What's that?" Cally asked, entering the room. Predictably, she had followed Blake's instruction, wearing a plain green dress with a darker green cloak.  
  
"Historical viscast series - very popular when I was a child. Lunda Mallard played the lead. Gorgeous legs!"  
  
"Your sole reason for watching, I assume," Avon sneered.  
  
"Of course not!" Vila felt himself forced into the defensive. "It was very educational, true to history and all that."  
  
"Ah, yes," Avon said, "the writers were very inventive in finding plausible reasons for the women to show their legs."  
  
Vila grinned. "So you watched it too."  
  
Avon gave him a supercilious glare. "Not to goggle at Lunda's legs."  
  
"I can't remember having watched it," Jenna said.  
  
"Must've been before your time," Vila told her. Eyeing Blake, he added mischievously, "In that gear HE could pass for Brother Rahere." He began to giggle. "BROTHER Rahere!"  
  
"I think I'm missing something," Cally said.  
  
"On Earth 'Brother' was the title for a monk," Avon explained. "I imagine the intended joke is that monks were supposed to be celibate." He gave Blake a scrutinising gaze. "Actually, he does look like a monk. That garment is called a habit, Cally."  
  
"Not something to pick up easily." Vila felt his joke go flat even before he caught Jenna rolling her eyes.  
  
"The only thing missing is a tonsure." Avon's eyes held a mischievous gleam. "Perhaps we should redress that."  
  
"Enough," Blake snapped. "Cally, Vila, get a bracelet." He activated the comlink. "Gan, we're ready to go."  
  
"Are you sure you don't want me to operate the teleport?" The communicator gave Gan's voice a metallic echo.  
  
"Quite sure. Orac will put us down. You keep Liberator in orbit."  
  
"Right. Good luck, Blake."  
  
Vila grasped the opportunity. "Why don't I stay here with Gan? Better to have two on the ship in case of a crisis."  
  
"No, Vila." Blake pushed a bracelet into his hand, then strode to the teleport bay. "Orac recommended that we all go, except for Gan."  
  
*And if you will keep your appointment,* the machine added, *you must depart in the next thirty seconds.*  
  
"Get a move on, Vila," Blake said.  
  
"All right." With resignation, Vila clasped the bracelet on his arm and joined the others in the bay.  
  
"We're ready, Orac," Blake said, and Vila saw his surroundings blur. A grey mist engulfed him. This wasn't right, he thought, fighting against panic. It never took so long! What had Orac done? He'd told Blake not to trust that machine - well, he SHOULD have told him! But who would have listened? Too late now...  
  
The mist cleared. Vila found himself in a wood. Large trees stood amongst knee-high ferns. He became aware of the stench of rotting vegetation. His relief made way for a feeling of claustrophobia. It was as if the trees were moving in to smother him. The atmosphere of doom was enhanced by the sun, shining through the waving yellowing leaves, casting moving shadows on the ground.  
  
"Blake!" he heard Jenna shout.  
  
Turning, Vila saw movement amongst the trees. Beasts appeared -horses. Vila had seen them on viscasts but never realised they were so huge. And they had men on their backs. Rough, tough looking men dressed in leather, holding bows and arrows. It seemed to Vila as though every arrow was aimed straight at him. He felt faint.  
  
One of the riders shouted something he couldn't understand, but the meaning was clear. Raising his hands, Vila murmured, "Can't even speak proper Terran!" He looked sideways to see how the others reacted. Avon kept his hands well away from his purse, clearly aware he wouldn't have a chance of drawing his gun, and was looking curiously at the sky. Cally seemed to be estimating how many companions for her death an act of resistance would bring. Jenna frowned, shifting her gaze from their captors to Blake as if she expected him to solve the crisis.  
  
Blake stepped forward. "My name's Blake. I'm expected."  
  
Seizing the opportunity of the distraction, Vila began to edge away from the line of fire. He brought his bracelet up to his mouth and whispered, "Liberator, bring us up!" No reply.  
  
Vila felt familiar jitters in his belly. Something was wrong; very, VERY wrong!  
  
"Well?" Blake said, clearly annoyed by the lack of reaction from the archers. "Take me to your leader!"  
  
"I am the leader."  
  
Vila turned, taking in the man who had spoken. He was better dressed than the others, in fine leather with a dark red cloak, and rode a handsome horse with a shiny black coat.  
  
Gesturing to his men to lower their bows, the newcomer rode forward until he was facing Blake. "You must be the Welsh monk from Shrewsbury." His accent was so strange to make it nearly unintelligible. Vila frowned. Had he really heard him say 'Welsh monk'?  
  
"I'm Blake. These are my companions -"  
  
Vila would never know what made him stride forward and take over the introduction. "Lord Avon. Lady Jenna. Cally, milady's maid. And I'm Vila... " He paused to consider a suitably imposing rank for himself.  
  
"My servant," Avon said smoothly. The leader dismounted, casting Avon a glance of open respect. Must be the clothes, Vila thought sourly.  
  
"We had expected the good Brother, but not that he would bring such a noble retinue with him." Vila had to strain to catch the unfamiliar sounds of the leader's words. It wasn't anything like the Standard Terran he was used to. "Welcome, Lord. You must have had an arduous journey, all the way from Wales." Wales again! Vila began to wonder whether his gut feeling could be right. "My manor is at your disposal." The leader gestured. "It is not far away."  
  
Avon gave a brief nod. He seemed to grow under the leader's reverence. "And you are?"  
  
The leader raised his eyebrows. "I thought the Abbot would have mentioned my name. I am Sir Thomas Pennant, Under-Sheriff of this..."  
  
Vila didn't catch the rest, but the word Under-Sheriff was enough. Surely this was crazy! Impossible! What had Orac landed them in? He tried his bracelet again, speaking softly to avoid attention. "Liberator, come in. Gan! Answer!" Not even static disturbed the silence.

* * *

Shire - had the man said SHIRE? Blake took a mental grip on himself. This was ridiculous! Shires were something of the past - Old Calendar. Simantran had districts, like all colonised worlds. And Wales had disappeared from the map a long time ago. He doubted the Simantrans would have heard of it, let alone used its name.  
  
Realising the leader was speaking again he strained to catch the meaning. "Where are your horses - your luggage?"  
  
The question was directed at Avon, who replied, "We left them in good care." His thoughts must be going along the same line. Even if he didn't know any history, he would've taken the trouble to check the information on Simantran in Zen's databanks. The planet had twin suns, close together but far enough away to be seen as separate light sources. The sun that stood high in THIS sky had no companion. And Simantran did not have any dense woods.  
  
The leader handed the reins of his horse over to one of the archers. "Then let me lead the way."  
  
Moving in line to follow the others over what he now saw was a vague path, Blake activated his communicator. Keeping his voice down, so the archers making up the rear wouldn't be able to hear him above the noise of their horses, he called Liberator. He frowned on getting no reply. Gan must have brought the ship out of range. Unless THEY had been brought out of range. A teleport malfunction? It had felt different... Blake squared his shoulders. He'd sort it out! Meanwhile, they had to stay alert and learn as much as they could about this place. The path was so narrow they had to go in single file. Sir Thomas went first. Avon followed, with Vila almost on his heels. Then Jenna, Cally, Blake himself and behind him the four archers. Not used to walking in a gown, Blake found the going heavy. The course fabric of his skirt fell awkwardly round his legs and the hem kept getting caught in the thorny bushes.  
  
The path widened, enabling them to fan out. Striding forwards with the others, Blake was about to overtake Cally when a horseman appeared from a bend in the path. Seeing Cally start, Blake hurried to her. "What is it, Cally?"  
  
"I felt something... evil. No, it's gone." She shook her head. "It's nothing. I'm fine."  
  
"This is Richard, my brother and clerk of the manor," Sir Thomas introduced the newcomer. Then he turned to his brother. Blake could not follow what he said; when addressing them Thomas must have been speaking deliberately slowly. Richard, tanned and muscular like his brother, but shorter and fairer, nodded while letting his gaze rove over the group. Then he turned his horse and galloped away. Sir Thomas and Avon resumed their walk side by side. Blake joined them. "We had not expected you so soon," Thomas said. "God must have given you a swift journey. A sign that His blessing is upon your undertaking."  
  
"Yes," Blake said, with rising unease. What was the man talking about?  
  
The Under-Sheriff nodded. "But then, He'd not want to leave such a foul murder unsolved."  
  
MURDER? Had he heard that right? Realising his mouth had fallen open, Blake closed it again. At his side, he could sense Avon abandon his pose of aloof indifference.  
  
"I know some say we should leave it to God altogether," Thomas went on. "But it seems to me He expects us to give Him a hand where we can."  
  
"A sensible assumption," Avon said.  
  
Sir Thomas looked relieved. "I've been Under-Sheriff for nigh on ten years now. I've dealt with manslaughter, robberies and drunken stabbings. But this is different - the slaying of a holy monk." He turned to Blake. "I'm grateful to the Prior for his intercession with your Abbot. Your reputation has preceded you, Brother." Blake felt dazed. What was he supposed to do - solve a murder? What the hell was going on? Thomas frowned. "Mind, from the description I had expected a much older man."  
  
"And you were right," Avon said before Blake could react. "I'm afraid that the good Brother in question is too old to undertake such a long journey. So he sent his assistant in his place." Avon produced one of those smug smiles that made you long to smash his face in. "I have a certain experience in solving crimes. That's why the Abbot asked me to accompany Brother Blake and give him my assistance."  
  
Was this a piece of brilliant improvisation, or had Avon known about this murder investigation? It almost sounded as though he was looking forward to it. But then, he HAD enjoyed solving the murder on the Ortega. Avon liked to pit his wits against a clever opponent and prove himself the winner. A cold suspicion rose in Blake. Had Avon been conspiring with Orac to bring them here, instructing the machine to find him a nice little mystery to solve? It was Orac that had come up with the suggestion to try for a treaty with the Simantrans. It was Orac who'd given the advice on the clothes. It was Orac who'd set the teleport co-ordinates. Suppose the visit to Simantran had been merely a pretext, to lure them to this place? But Avon had seemed as bewildered as he - Blake did not think that was feigned. Although able to lie with a straight face, Avon was not a very good dissembler. Still, one thing was certain: they were not on Simantran. So where were they?  
  
The suggestion that kept nagging at the back of his mind had to be discarded. Time travel was impossible. Orac must have led them to some planet colonised by a group trying to re-enact the past. He's heard rumours about such projects. Blake tried to remember which other worlds had been within teleport range. He could think of none. Simantran was the only habitable planet in that system. So they had to be in another system. Which meant that Zen must be in on it too, having given false readings to make them believe the ship was on course to the Simantran system while they were not getting anywhere near it. Blake nodded to himself; he must not forget that Orac could influence Zen. If so, where were they? It did not seem the right question to ask outright. Maybe he could gain some information in a roundabout way.  
  
"Have you heard any recent news?" he asked casually. To his relief his host appeared not to be surprised by the question.  
  
"I don't know if this has reached you yet, but rumours are that an agreement is in the making between the King and Anjou. They say that now his own son has died, the King is ready to accept the Empress's son as heir."  
  
"A wise decision," Avon said, nodding sagely.  
  
IMPOSSIBLE! Blake tried to calm his wildly beating heart. Anjou - he knew that name. Something to do with history - Earth history, Western Europe's Middle Ages. The landscape, the language, the entourage, the political situation - no re-enactment group could be so precise. This had to be the real thing. Orac must have brought them back in time! Blake clenched his fists. If Avon was responsible for this, he'd make him rue it!

* * *

Avon sipped from his wine without really tasting it. He needed all his attention to follow Sir Thomas's words. They were sitting in what he gathered was the hall of Thomas's manor. A primitive interior, although the house seemed sturdy enough. Chairs had been provided for him, Blake and Sir Thomas, while Vila was left standing.  
  
At the other side of the sparsely furnished room a stately woman Thomas had introduced as his wife Beatrice was entertaining Jenna, with Cally standing demurely at Jenna's side. Sir Thomas appeared to have a gift for concise reporting, which Avon would have welcomed under any other circumstances. Right now he could have done with someone using a more elaborate manner of expression. Although he was beginning to get used to the accent, many of the words were unknown to him and he had to piece together the information from the few fragments that did make sense. He hadn't even tried to contact Liberator. He'd seen Blake and Vila do that, with apparent lack of response.  
  
Not surprising really - Liberator was never on station when they needed her! Sir Thomas had finished his report, looking at his guests with an almost childlike gaze of anticipation. Did he expect them to be able to name the murderer there and then? Avon cast a quick glance sideways at Blake, who sat frowning. Must still be trying to process the words. So it was up to him. Well, there was a certain satisfaction in seeing Blake struck dumb for a change.  
  
Avon put his wine cup down on the small table at his side. "To summarise, Sir Thomas. This Brother Anselm of..."  
  
"Woodbrook Priory," Thomas supplied readily. He seemed to have less trouble understanding Avon's Standard Terran than Avon had understanding his language.  
  
"Woodbrook Priory," Avon repeated, none the wiser. "Brother Anselm came to this village." He stopped, hoping that Thomas would supply the village's name. "On the eve of Saint Oswald's Day."  
  
Marvellous! When was that supposed to be? Judging by the yellowing leaves on the trees it must be early autumn now. But the murder could have taken place weeks or even months before.  
  
"He checked into the inn... " Avon resumed.  
  
Sir Thomas frowned, as if he didn't know the expression, then said, "Jack, the inn-keeper, took him in."  
  
"And the next day he left..."  
  
"Not the next, Lord Avon. The day after. He stayed for the feast, sung mass with Father Edmund - our village priest."  
  
Monks, priests, Anjou - the inference was staggering! Avon found himself reel. But this was not the time to ponder on impossibilities. He needed to concentrate!  
  
"So the day after the feast, Brother Anselm left the inn mid-morning to continue his journey. Did he tell you his destination?"  
  
"The abbey at Shrewsbury." From the way Thomas spoke the name Avon got the impression that he was talking about a far away place.  
  
"A long journey," he ventured.  
  
"Yes, especially for such a frail man. For the night he was planning to lodge with the Brothers in town. Jack set him off on the Town Road. Even with his late start he should have been able to get there before dark."  
  
Avon nodded, wishing that Thomas would give a name to said town. Not that he'd ever have heard of it, probably. "Later that day Brother Anselm's body was found in a hut in the wood. He had been strangled. His horse was missing and has not been found."  
  
"That's right, Lord Avon."  
  
"Who found the body?"  
  
"Robert Cross-eye, he's Jack's brother-in-law. Robert had been to town for the fair. Returning late in the afternoon, he passed the hut - it's on the road. Noticing the door was open, he went inside to investigate and found Brother Anselm lying on the floor."  
  
"Strangled, you said?"  
  
"Yes, milord. The murderer must have used a very fine string - it looked like fishing line. It had cut deep into his throat."  
  
"Was anything missing?"  
  
"His habit - he was lying in his shift. And the money, of course."  
  
Money! Now things were getting interesting! "What money?"  
  
"But surely you know about it, Lord Avon? The Abbot must have told you."  
  
"I prefer to ignore second hand information. So tell me about the money, Sir Thomas."  
  
The Under-Sheriff did not seem uneasy under Avon's gaze. This did not rule him out as the murderer... Avon suddenly realised he was already beginning to regard people as possible suspects.  
  
"Of course, at that time we didn't yet know anything about the money," Thomas said. "It was only when we returned the body to Woodbrook Priory that the Prior informed me that Brother Anselm had been on his way to Shrewsbury to buy a relic from the monks there. For that purpose he was carrying three hundred silver marks in a money belt around his waist."  
  
Avon had no idea about the value of local currency but that sum obviously was regarded as a small fortune. This talk about relics confirmed his suspicion. Avon remembered one of the MANOR MAIDENS episodes, which had dealt with a relic seller visiting the manor. Impossible! What was Orac playing at? It appeared that it had hoodwinked Blake magnificently, which would have been amusing under different circumstances. Avon forced his attention back to his host. "There you have the motive, then."  
  
Thomas shook his head. "Nobody knew about the money."  
  
"It could have been pure chance," Blake said suddenly. Avon sighed - his silence had been too good to last. "Some robbers - outlaws, roaming the wood - happen upon this monk. They kill him, strip him and find the money."  
  
Squaring his shoulders, Sir Thomas gave Blake a withering glance. "I keep these woods free of outlaws! Besides, why would they want to assault a penniless monk? Brother Anselm was old, frail, his habit threadbare. No-one would have guessed he was carrying any wealth. The Prior told me he'd selected Anselm especially for the mission because he was the most diminutive of them all. Even the horse was long past its prime. No self-respecting outlaw would condemn his soul by killing a monk for such poor loot." Thomas stopped to draw breath. Then he looked at Avon. "The murderer must have hoped we would fall for the outlaw theory. But outlaws wouldn't have bothered to carry the body to the hut - they'd simply have left him where they slew him."  
  
Avon held up his hand to stop his flow of words. "You mean Anselm wasn't killed in the hut?"  
  
"Given the way the body lay, it must have been thrown there after death. And we found some faint signs of a struggle outside. The poor man wouldn't have been able to put up much of a fight." Thomas leant forward to stress his point.

"You see, Lord Avon, the man who did this foul deed has to be one of the villagers. Someone who'd found out about the money, then waited until his victim left, followed him and killed him in the woods, hoping the deed would be attributed to outlaws. It was well planned."  
  
Blake made an impatient gesture. "If you know where to look, surely it must not be difficult to find the killer?"  
  
"I imagine that if it was that easy," Avon said sweetly, "the Under-Sheriff wouldn't need our assistance."  
  
Thomas gave him a grateful look. "I said the deed was well planned. Brother Anselm left the inn about an hour before noon. The hut is an hour's walk from here, right on the West Road the good Brother took. I doubt his horse could go very fast. It must have taken him well over half an hour to reach the hut. So the deed must have been done within an hour after his departure. And all our villagers have an alibi for that time."  
  
"He could've been killed much nearer here, and his body then taken to the hut," Blake argued.  
  
Avon smiled grimly to himself; Sir Thomas had yet to experience that sheer logic never cut any ice with Blake.  
  
"You said yourself," Blake continued, "that the signs of a struggle you found outside there were but faint."  
  
"I did consider that possibility, Brother Blake. But it would still have cost the murderer time to take the body there. At the relevant time, none of the villagers was missing."  
  
"How do you know that?" Avon asked.  
  
"Because Jack, the innkeeper, was organising a team to repair the church roof. In the hour after Brother Anselm left he and my brother went to talk to every able-bodied man in the village, and found none missing."  
  
That seemed rather conclusive. Yet Thomas appeared convinced that the crime had been committed by one of his villagers, Avon reflected. "What about others - travellers from town?"  
  
Thomas shook his head again. "No stranger was seen here that day."  
  
"What about Anselm's next stop?" Blake asked. "Someone in that town may have killed him and brought his body to that hut."  
  
"Brother, when I viewed the body it was already stiff. That means death must have taken place around noon at the latest. By then Brother Anselm couldn't have travelled much further than the hut. I haven't had any word about strangers in these woods. By elimination, that leaves only our villagers within distance."  
  
Despite himself, Avon felt a twinge of anticipation. It WAS an intriguing mystery, worthy of his powers of deduction. If only he could find a satisfactory explanation for their present situation - and the assurance of a safe return to Liberator - he might be able to enjoy the investigation.

* * *

Cally sat at the table, nibbling at the unfamiliar food and taking in the society of their hosts. They seemed primitive indeed, and placed great emphasis on status. The table was a simple construction of long planks on trestles. She'd seen it being put up for the meal. In fact there were three tables, placed in a horseshoe shape. The placement of the diners seemed to have been done strictly to rank, with Sir Thomas, his wife Beatrice, Avon, Jenna, Thomas's brother Richard, and Blake at the centre table, while the other tables were reserved for the servants.  
  
Even amongst them the division seemed to be maintained, those servants lowest in rank sitting the farthest away from the centre table. Cally had been given a place amongst the senior servants, next to a woman who had introduced herself as Lady Beatrice's personal maid, Joanna. She was a comely woman of about Cally's age. There seemed to be lots of servants, male and female.  
  
Vila had been placed at the opposite table, between a large man with a self-important air and an elderly, prim looking woman. He was eyeing his food with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Cally could sympathise. The stew was much too spiced for her taste. Herbs should be used to add flavour to a dish, not to drown out the taste of the other ingredients. As for those ingredients, Cally wasn't sure she wanted to know them even if she'd be able to identify any. They had no plates; the stew had been ladled onto thick, square slices of bread that appeared to take the function of plates. The drink served with the food seemed slightly alcoholic. Cally found the taste dubious. She looked round for an alternative but the only jug of water was at the centre table, where it was used to dilute the wine served there.  
  
At that table they also had a better choice of food. Cally saw a large dish filled with what looked like pieces of meat. They were eaten from the hand - forks, or even chopsticks, seemed to be unknown here. Only one bread slice had been provided for Avon and Jenna. Likewise, they seemed to be expected to share the wine cup of thick bluish glass, which was probably the household's only piece of glassware.  
  
Face inscrutable, Avon was selecting the best bits of meat, which he then handed to Jenna with demonstrative gallantry. Cally caught a gleam in his eye - he must be perversely savouring the opportunity to rile Jenna. Smiling gracefully, Jenna seemed determined to perform the role expected of her, but Cally could see the strain in her clenched jaws. Cally began to pick up a vague sense of unease. These people seemed friendly enough, but something was wrong. It took her a while to determine that the strong emotional currents she sensed were coming from her crewmates. Vila in dread was nothing new, but why was Blake so upset? Surely the dressing up of Avon and Jenna had worked well as it seemed to impress their hosts. Could he be peeved because Avon was taking the limelight? No, Blake wasn't that petty! Beneath his cold facade Avon seemed excited. That must have something to do with the prospect of partaking in a murder investigation. Cally had not been able to understand all of what was said, but she'd gathered that Sir Thomas was expecting them to help him solve the crime. Well, if that was the price for Simantran's support, why not? Avon would enjoy the challenge, and he might well succeed. He did solve the Ortega case, after all, even if he'd underestimated the murderer. Cally smiled to herself; turning his back to a suspect was a mistake Avon would not be making again!  
  
She tried to suppress her feelings of unease by studying their hosts. Lady Beatrice was blonde and portly, with a chubby face, large grey eyes and a regal bearing. Her bright blue dress would have been striking on its own but it paled into insignificance against Jenna's splendour. Sir Thomas had exchanged his leather for a comfortable looking tunic of a dark red, velvety material. The presence he exuded came from his bearing rather than his looks, for his face was rather plain. He was clean-shaven, his short brown hair cut in a fringe rather like Avon's. She estimated him to be in his early forties, at least ten years older than his wife, by the look of it. Cally shifted her gaze to his brother, and again she experienced a strong feeling of repulsion, similar to when she had first set eyes on him in the wood. There was something unsavoury about him, intangible but present all the same.  
  
Then the feeling was gone, and she chided herself for such dramatisation. Now he seemed just an ordinary man, less forceful than his brother or maybe that impression was caused by his simple black gown. His fair hair, parted in the middle, hung in greasy strands onto his shoulders. Servants began to distribute bowls of aromatic water, signalling that the meal was over. Seeing the others dip their fingers in and dry them on their napkins, Cally followed their example.  
  
Sir Thomas rose. "Our guestroom is at your disposal, Lord Avon. For the good Brother, I have arranged lodging with Father Edmund, our village priest."  
  
Cally caught Blake's eye; he did not look pleased.

* * *

Still angry about having had to suffer Avon's gallantry, Jenna surveyed the enormous bed. The guestroom was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the house; except for the bed it only held a few chests placed along the walls. The single window contained no glass but could be closed by shutters. Moonlight fell into the room along with the night air, which was not particularly cold but still unpleasant for someone used to the controlled environment of a space ship. The light was a welcome addition to the meagre shine of the few candles set into wall sconces and the small oil lamp hanging from the ceiling.  
  
"Primitive indeed," she commented to nobody in particular.  
  
"Could be worse," Vila said, his voice muffled by his tunic. He pulled the garment free from his head and dropped it onto the nearest chest. "At least we've got a roof over our heads." He began to giggle. "Go on, Jenna! We're supposed to sleep naked."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous!" She gave him the disdainful stare he deserved.  
  
"No, it's true! You tell her, Avon!"  
  
"Vila," Avon said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Help me take off my boots."  
  
"Why me?"  
  
"You are supposed to be my servant." Over Vila's protests, Avon said to Jenna, "We'd better keep up the pretence."  
  
She understood his meaning. "I don't suppose you're gallant enough to make do with the floor?"  
  
He eyed the rough wooden planks with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "Not quite, no."  
  
Damn Blake, to get her in this situation! "All right. Just don't try anything!"  
  
For a moment she saw a glimmer in his eyes, then he was serious again. "I won't."  
  
Cally had been prowling the room. "Where are the servants supposed to sleep?"  
  
"In the bed with the Lord and Lady." Having pulled off one of Avon's boots, Vila took a grip on the second. "I've always wanted to know how it feels, sharing a bed with two beautiful women."  
  
Jenna longed to beat the leer from his face. "Forget it!"  
  
"We can assume that the valet is expected to sleep at his master's side."

Freed from his boots, Avon began to manoeuvre his heavy tunic over his head, revealing the black sweater he was wearing underneath it. "And the maid at her lady's side."  
  
The more Jenna thought about it, the less attractive the proposed arrangement became. She reached for her bracelet. "I'm going to sleep in my cabin."  
  
"Really?" Avon commented.  
  
"We can't let Blake down," Cally said.  
  
"He doesn't need to know. Neither do our hosts. I'll teleport back here early tomorrow, before the servants enter."  
  
"I doubt it," Avon said, smiling slightly.  
  
Suddenly alarmed, Jenna pressed her bracelet button. "Liberator. Come in." No reply.  
  
"She must have gone off course," Cally said.  
  
Releasing the button, Jenna unleashed her frustration at Avon. "You knew this!"  
  
He returned her gaze calmly. "It stands to reason."  
  
"Liberator's never there when you need her," Vila remarked.  
  
"She'll be back," Cally said.  
  
"She'd better!" Jenna sat down onto the other side of the bed, away from Avon. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life on a backwater planet like Simantran."  
  
Avon rose. "You don't mean you still think we're on Simantran?  
  
A new wave of unease engulfed her. "What do you mean?"  
  
Avon gave her a dark stare. "Didn't you study the information about Simantran from Zen's databanks?"  
  
"Of course I did." In fact she had only glanced at it, but it was the usual story. "Earth type planet, colonised during the first wave of interstellar travel. It was left to its fate during the Great Silence - when conflicts on Earth caused the space-faring programme to be abandoned," she explained to Cally. "Deprived from supplies from Earth, the colonists were forced to revert to a more primitive way of life. Unlike many other settlements, the Simantrans survived, mainly because of the abundance of edible plants and fruits on their world. When contact was restored a few centuries later, they had become set in their ways and didn't want to have anything to do with the new technology."  
  
Avon nodded. "A neat summary, but beside the point."  
  
Jenna hung on to her patience with difficulty. "And your point is?"  
  
He began to pace the room, counting off the points on his fingers. "One: the Simantrans aren't THIS primitive. They have electricity, generators powered by falling water. Two: there aren't any horses on Simantran - they are not indigenous and were never brought there. Three: according to Zen the Simantrans employ a primitive form of laser gun. People who have laser guns at their disposal wouldn't bother with bows and arrows. Four: the association with Wales."  
  
"What's that?" Cally asked.  
  
"A former region on Earth, conquered by the English," Avon said. "Old-Calendar."  
  
"Very OLD Old-Calendar," Vila added.  
  
"How would you know that?" Jenna murmured, irritated that Vila knew something she didn't.  
  
"It was mentioned in MANOR MAIDENS."  
  
"Obviously that's where Vila acquired his knowledge of history," Avon remarked.  
  
"I should have guessed." Frowning, Jenna tried to work out the implications of his arguments. "You mean Orac's made a mistake and teleported us somewhere else?"  
  
Avon's smile seemed ominous. "Oh, it teleported us somewhere else all right. But not by mistake! Think of the detailed planning, making sure we got the right clothes, the precise timing of our departure. Orac was deliberately misleading us."  
  
Before Jenna could reply, Cally asked, "But why?"  
  
"Revenge," Vila suggested, "for Avon putting that bomb in its circuits."  
  
Jenna saw Avon frown for a moment. Obviously he'd overlooked that possibility. She longed to find an argument against it, but it made sense. Jenna suddenly felt ice in her stomach. "But there weren't any other planets within teleport range! Absolutely none."  
  
"Then Orac must have deceived us," Cally said. "Remember, he can override Zen! He must have made Zen give us false readings, making us think we were on our way to Simantran."  
  
"While we weren't going anywhere near it." Jenna looked at Avon. His smug pose made clear he knew more than he'd told them. She wouldn't put it past him to have set all this up with Orac. "All right, Avon. Where are we?"  
  
"Isn't that obvious? The prolonged teleportation, Orac's insistence on Medieval clothes, the language, the reference to Wales."

Vila suddenly looked as if he was woken by a cold shower. "You mean it's REALLY true? Orac's sent us back in time? This isn't just a re-enactment group we happened upon?"  
  
"Use your brain, Vila - or what passes for it! Even you must be able to work out the clues." But of course, Jenna noticed sourly, Avon couldn't resist providing the answers himself. "The language - it isn't like any variation of Standard Terran I've ever heard. Yet it has enough elements of English, the language Terran evolved from, to be recognisable to us - if only just. And no level of re-enactment can reach this kind of perfection. It's the real thing."  
  
Vila nodded. "It's like we've been dropped right into MANOR MAIDENS."  
  
Jenna felt she would start kicking something if he mentioned that viscast show once more.  
  
"Blake's reputation has flown far and wide," Avon went on. "By now, there can't be any civilised world left where his name is not known. Yet HERE his name means nothing. They're expecting a monk from Wales, and because of Blake's habit and unfamiliar speech, they assume him to be that monk. Presumably Wales has its own dialect, and they've probably never met a Welshman before." Avon paused, visibly relishing the attention of his audience. "There's only one place we can have landed in, and that's Old Calendar, Medieval England."  
  
"But that's ridiculous!" Jenna exclaimed. "Time-travel isn't possible! Faulkner's law."  
  
"Faulkner's law?" Cally asked. "I've never heard of that."  
  
"It's the concept," Avon said, "that time-travellers would have left traces of their visits to the past. Since no such traces have been found, it follows that time travel has never been done."

"And the fact that it's never been done," Jenna added, "proves that it's impossible. Because if it had been possible, someone in the future would have found a way to do it and the visits to the past would've left traces."  
  
Avon strolled over to the window. "A rather rambling theory."  
  
Cally frowned. "This seems difficult to believe. My people have done research into time travel. They, too, came to the conclusion that is isn't possible."  
  
"Well then," Avon drawled. "Obviously Orac is cleverer than the Auronar."  
  
Jenna gritted her teeth. First the prediction of Liberator's destruction, then the energy sucking alien life form - this was the third time Orac had involved them in his nefarious schemes. "We should have ditched that machine!"  
  
"But, Avon -" Vila had paled. "We'll be able to return to Liberator, won't we?"  
  
"I imagine so. After all, the only way for Orac to know whether its experiment has succeeded, is to get us back to tell the tale."  
  
"Or he just wanted to get rid of us," Vila said.  
  
Again dismay clouded Avon's face for a moment. Then he shook his head. "In that case Orac would have selected you to stay behind. You're easier to hoodwink - Gan has been showing signs of independent thought, recently."  
  
"Orac's brought the ship out of range, hasn't he?" Vila muttered. "I mean, we can't make contact."  
  
Avon stared through the window. "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that we can't make contact not because Liberator isn't there, but because WE aren't."  
  
Vila groaned. "You're making my head ache."  
  
Avon's gaze turned back to the room. "It's clear we've been brought here for a specific purpose."  
  
"To solve this murder," Cally said.  
  
"Exactly. We can presume that, once that purpose is fulfilled, Orac will retrieve us."  
  
"Yeah?" Vila didn't sound convinced. "Well, I hope you're right."  
  
"I frequently am."  
  
True, Jenna thought, resentment overwhelming her. "How long did it take you to work all this out?"  
  
His smile was insufferably smug. "I knew almost at once that we weren't on Simantran. There was only one sun in the sky." Another thing she'd missed. "It took a little longer to work out where we were, but the clues were unmistakable."  
  
It was then that the full impact of his theory hit her. "But it's impossible. We can't be on Earth. Even with Zen misleading us, Liberator would have needed more time to cover the distance between Zondar and Earth."  
  
"Within the dimension of time," Avon said, "the rules of distance may not apply."  
  
"We must be at some other planet," she continued doggedly. "A place settled by some back-to-the-good-old-times movement. Like that group we heard about on Soros?"  
  
For once Avon's face lost its supercilious expression. He gestured at the window. "Look at the moon, Jenna."  
  
She hesitated for a moment, then stood and almost unwillingly walked over to the window.  
  
Large and nearly full, the moon had just risen above the trees, its mountains and ridges clearly visible. There was no mistaking the pattern. As a child, she'd often watched that picture on her view-screen, fascinated at the thought that it was really there, outside the dome. The view-screen, able to pick up the images from cameras outside the dome, had been an expensive birthday present. She'd spend many hours in bed with the toy under her blanket, watching the night sky, while she was supposed to be asleep. It was that view of the moon and stars in the black endlessness of space, which had made her decide to become a space pilot.  
  
"Convinced?" Avon's voice brought her back to the present.  
  
"Avon, if I ever find proof that you're in league with Orac... " She let the threat hang.  
  
He raised his eyebrows in mock indignation. "I would've chosen a more interesting period to visit."  
  
He might actually mean that. A world without computers would hold little interest for Avon.  
  
"We'd better get some sleep," Cally said. Jenna saw she'd taken off her dress, revealing a long yellow shirt that was almost a robe by itself. Remembering she was wearing a similar covering-all undergarment, Jenna followed her example. Her bejewelled dress was too uncomfortable to sleep in, but this was as far as she would go. Avon, in his sweater and very tight black trousers, appeared not to be inclined to discard any more clothes. Vila seemed willing to bare all, but seeing the others desist, he fastened the cords of his shirt again, muttering, "Killjoys!"  
  
Jenna climbed into the bed. The sheets and blankets seemed reasonably clean but the mattress had bumps and sagged in the middle. It made her long acutely for her bunk on Liberator. The bed was large enough to hold them all, though. Cally climbed in after her. Avon settled at her other side, carefully leaving a space free. It didn't leave much room for Vila, Jenna reflected without really caring.  
  
"Vila, put out those candles," Avon instructed. "Leave the lamp alight."  
  
"I know," Vila replied. "They always leave a small light burning, to keep away the ghosts."  
  
"More likely in order not to stumble over the chamber pot in the dark," Avon said.  
  
AND GOOD NIGHT TO YOU, AVON! Turning onto her side, her back to him, Jenna thought of Blake. She could picture him, comfortable in the priest's house, a room and bed all to himself.

* * *

Turning onto his other side, Blake tried in vain to find a more comfortable position on the coarse straw mattress on the floor. Father Edmund, the village priest, had offered him a place in his bed but Blake had felt obliged to decline the invitation. He'd been surprised to see the priest share his bed with a woman; he thought priests, like monks, were supposed to be celibate. But the four small children in the house all had Edmund's lanky look.  
  
Blake sighed. His supper was lying heavily in his stomach. Not that he need worry about unseemly noises here - it would be difficult to surpass those of the others. The children, sharing the large bed with their parents, were as boisterous in their sleep as when awake. The eldest, a boy of about ten, was breathing noisily through his nose. One of the girls was suffering from a cold, sneezing and snivelling with abandon, while the other made puffing sounds in her sleep. The baby alternated between a soft whining and loud crying. To topple all that, Edmund snored and his woman had the wheezing breath of a lung-disease sufferer. Yet the whole family seemed sound asleep. Probably used to the din, Blake thought morosely. Worse than the noise was the oppressive smell, a mixture of unwashed bodies, stale food and sewage.  
  
On first entering the house it had made him almost gag. Ventilation appeared to be unknown here; both the door and the shutters over the single window were tightly shut. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, a ring of stones in the centre of the room. The walls seemed to be held together by dirt. He'd heard of this building method - wattle and daub. The roof was thatched and the floor was made of beaten earth. The house was very small, only consisting of this one room. How they could bear to live in such cramped conditions was beyond him. Even the prisoner's quarters on the London had been spacious by comparison.  
  
Blake felt an acute longing to be back on Liberator. He'd again tried to contact her, earlier, from the only place providing any privacy in this crowded household: the outside privy. Again his communicator had stayed infuriatingly silent. They could only hope that Orac would restore communication once it deemed this experiment to be over. Blake had reluctantly accepted the unthinkable, that they'd somehow been hurled back in time to Medieval England. The evidence left no room for any other possibility. Somehow, Orac had managed to override the laws of physics that stated so clearly that time travel was impossible. After the other tricks Orac had played them, he should not have put his trust in that devious machine! But he'd thought that he'd be able to control it - or that Avon would.  
  
It was now clear that Orac had been setting him up - and he'd played along beautifully! He supposed he should be impressed. Time travel hadn't been done before and it certainly confirmed Orac's claim to be the most advanced computer in existence. But their fight against the Federation left no time for the luxury of scientific experiments. What was Orac's objective? Had he had any special reason for bringing them to this particular time and place? This period could be of little scientific interest to the most advanced computer in the galaxy. Unless it had something to do with that murder they were supposed to solve. Which brought him to Avon, who'd once solved a murder case and enjoyed the experience. How involved was Avon? He'd made it clear more than once that he didn't regard himself committed to Blake's cause. But Avon had seemed as disconcerted by the events as Blake himself. Which was worrying, in a way, because if Avon WAS responsible he'd have made sure to be able to return to his own time. Avon might get a kick out of the experiment of time travel, he certainly wouldn't want to end up marooned in a primitive and hostile world. If the experiment was Orac's alone, things looked much bleaker... Blake shook his head; he refused to give in to despondency. They would get out of the mess somehow!  
  
For the moment, their only option was to play along and try to solve that murder case. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the soreness in his throat. When Edmund had invited him to sing mass with him in the morning, he'd declined on the pretext of a sore throat. At the time he'd been rather pleased about his quick thinking, but now he found he was developing a sore throat in earnest. Sighing again, Blake tried to block out the noise, the smell, and his worries, and force himself into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Avon woke slowly. Stretching drowsily, his hand came upon a familiar form. Eyes still closed, he let his hand glide gently over the curve of the shoulder and chin, to caress the soft cheek. "Anna," he whispered, feeling his heartbeat quicken. He felt her arms round his neck. Warm lips were touching his.

"Blake!"

Avon drew away as if bitten. Opening his eyes, he caught the red on Jenna's cheeks just before she turned her head away. She looked as embarrassed as he felt. She must have thought he was calling her name. Anna and Jenna sounded almost the same, easy to mishear for sleepy ears. Fool that he was! How could he have let his defences down like that! He looked covertly at Jenna. She seemed as willing as he was to ignore the incident. Thank the stars for sensible women!

Avon sat up, taking in the soft daylight coming in through the open window. It gave the room a much brighter appearance than the candle flames had done. A prolonged cackling wail came from outside, making him realise that this was what had woken him. Cally stirred, opening her eyes. "What's that sound?"

"A cockerel," Avon said. "People relied on it before the invention of alarm clocks." Seeing the hump where Vila had wrapped himself totally in his end of the blanket, he couldn't resist a kick. "Rise and shine, Vila!"

"Ouch! Oh... " Trying to unwrap himself, Vila managed to get more entangled. With perverse anticipation Avon waited for the moment he would roll over the edge. At the last moment he reached over reluctantly to pull him back to safety. Away from Liberator's medical facilities, they couldn't afford to have Vila hurt himself.

Vila at last managed to get his face free. He blinked against the light. "No hurry, Avon. Didn't you hear Thomas mention how good an omen it was we arrived on Sunday eve. Eve's the day before, isn't it? So that means today's Sunday. That used to be a holiday." Turning onto his side, he pulled the blanket over his face again. "We can have a lie in."

"Sunday was also the day for religious duties." Avon shoved Vila's wrapped legs aside in order to be able to leave the bed. "I presume we're expected to attend the local ceremony."

Cally swung her legs to the floor, then stood, reaching for her dress. "We'd better make ready for breakfast then."

Jenna nodded. "We can't afford to annoy our hosts." With a sigh, she followed Cally's example. "I suppose they have no bathing facilities here?"

"They bath in the kitchen, in a large tub which the servants fill with hot water," Vila said. "But only occasionally."

Avon pulled his tunic over his head and smoothed it down. "You could ask for a bath to be prepared, Jenna. I imagine the whole household will turn up to watch you take it."

Jenna began to don her dress. "In that case, I'll do without."

While Avon stood idly admiring her graceful movements, a long forgotten fact came back to him. "Unless I'm mistaken, the religious ceremony has to be performed BEFORE breakfast."

"Marvellous!" Vila began to unwrap himself from the blanket with visible reluctance. "That was never mentioned in MANOR MAIDENS."

"Having successfully banned all churches," Avon said, "I imagine the Federation were not keen to see the subject of religion being referred to in a viscast show."

Vila sat up, casting the blanket aside. "They did show those monks in their cloister, didn't they?"

Avon shrugged, reaching for his boots. "They probably condoned that because they couldn't imagine anyone being inspired by the austere monastic way of life."

In fact, the chant of the monks was one of the factors that had made him watch the series. It was so different from the electronic music he was used to. Avon had never been particularly interested in music, but the plainsong had struck a chord in him.

Fastening the last string of her dress, Cally enquired, "Where will this ceremony be held?"

"In a special building called a church," Avon said.

Jenna frowned. "How will we know what to do?"

"By watching the others and doing what they do." Avon sat down on the bed to pull on his boots, vaguely wishing he'd settled for more comfortable footwear. "With a bit of luck any blunder will be attributed to our being Welsh."

"Why is that?" Cally asked.

"The Welsh had a reputation for being somewhat eccentric." Avon tried to remember data that had never really interested him. "They were forever rebelling against English rule." A thought made him smile. "If Blake had been born amongst them, he'd have spent his life ardently fighting the English."

"That's an idea." Vila's face lit up. "Can't we give him a hint? He might want to stay here. I mean, Welsh freedom must be a worthy cause, mustn't it?"

"But he'd want US to help him." With satisfaction, Avon saw Vila's face fall. Trying to ignore the stab of worry the reminder of the problem of their return to Liberator had caused, he took his small shaver from his purse. A good thing he recharged the power cells to full capacity before setting out! He switched it on, confident its low buzzing wouldn't be audible beyond the room, and began to shave himself.

"Can I borrow that when you've finished, Avon?" Vila asked while struggling into his tunic.

"You should've brought your own."

"I didn't know we'd get marooned here, did I?"

"Of course, contingency planning is beyond your capabilities."

"Our hosts must have a means for shaving," Cally remarked. "I didn't see many beards amongst them."

"So they'll expect a lord's valet to keep himself groomed," Jenna said.

She had a point. Having finished, Avon handed his shaver to Vila - they couldn't afford to allow him to get an infection through shaving himself by primitive means. "Mind you don't break it." Ignoring Vila's muttered protest that he could handle electronic devices as well as Avon could, he draped his cloak over his shoulders. "Let's concentrate on our task." Avon gave them a quick summary of the facts regarding Brother Anselm's murder. "We must take every opportunity to gather information about this crime. Jenna, you get Lady Beatrice to talk about it - she'll probably be more forthcoming to a woman, especially one of high rank. Cally, Vila, you listen to what the servants have to say. Don't chase them away with questions - bring up the subject casually and let them talk. At this stage every bit of information is important. We'll evaluate later, and try to distill the facts from the gossip." Having a clear aim made him feel better. He began to look forward to the challenge.

* * *

Walking through the bracing morning air, Cally felt a mixture of curiosity and caution. The Auronar had stopped worshipping their gods a long time ago, and she had no idea what to expect. Keeping a demure pose as befitted a servant, she covertly surveyed the rest of the group. The whole manor household seemed to be present, except maybe for one or two women left behind to look after the infants. Sir Thomas walked in front with his wife and brother, escorting Avon and Jenna. Cally had to look hard to espy Vila, who, in his simple brown clothes, blended in perfectly with the servants. All were walking at a leisurely pace, matching their footsteps to the stately tolling of the bell that sounded over the village.

Nobody seemed in a hurry, that had struck her the day before too, at the manor. Even among the servants a sense of relaxation prevailed. Yes, they had their tasks, and those were done, but at a sedate pace. Maybe that was to be expected in a culture where travelling was done by horse or foot, and it took a whole day to get from one settlement to the next. Even here, at the village, the dwellings were few and far between. The land seemed fertile, a patchwork of fields, meadows and woods covering the gently sloping hills.

The church stood on the top of a hill. It had none of the lavish grandeur that Cally somehow, without knowing why, had associated with the word church. The building, low and oblong, was of stone. Small unglazed windows let in light. The building looked ageless, giving the impression that it had stood there for centuries already and would do so until the end of time.

Blake had arrived before them. He was in the company of a lean, tall man with a beak of a nose and spiky fair hair, dressed in ornate vestments, who must be the priest. They stood waiting at the doorway. Blake looked haggard.

//You look as if you've had a bad night.// Noticing his tired answering smile, Cally followed Jenna into the church.

There the sexes split up, the men gathering at one side and the women at the other. The interior was spartan. There were no seats, only ledges against the long walls, presumably for the old and infirm. Various statues were placed along the walls. They were of carved wood, painted in garish colours. The same colours were used in the murals. Never in her life had Cally seen such abundance of decoration. Every bare piece of wall had been used. Many pictures were of people, most of them with golden circles round their heads. They must be the gods of this religion. Between them were geometrical figures, plants and birds, in every possible colour. Even in the poor light the effect was staggering. Her eyes were drawn to an altar set against the wall and covered with a lavishly embroidered cloth. It was not difficult to guess that this would be the focal point for the ceremony. The priest entered. She thought he looked faintly ridiculous in his ornate vestments. Then he began to sing. He had a wonderful voice, clear and unfaltering. Enthralled, Cally closed her eyes. She didn't understand a word of the song, but that wasn't necessary. This was a chant to be experienced, not just heard. Letting it engulf her, she lost all sense of time. ITE, MISSA EST.

Suddenly it was over. Dazed, Cally left the church in the wake of the others. She blinked, not just because of the sunshine after the semi-dark in the church. She'd never expected that a congregation of humans could reach such mental unity. It was something she'd only experienced with her own people, and she hadn't believed non-Auronar capable of it. Yet it had happened; at the height of the service the psychic strength of all those individuals had blended into prefect harmony. It had been breath-taking.

Struggling to come back to Earth, Cally concentrated on her surroundings. Many of the villagers stayed to talk. Again, nobody seemed in a hurry. Curious glances were directed at Avon and Jenna. Avon was clearly regarding their open respect as no more than his due. Cally found it more difficult to gauge Jenna's feelings. Avon stayed close to Sir Thomas. Blake joined them. Vila had again managed to blend into the background and it took Cally a moment to spot him. He appeared to keep an eye on Avon, ready to seek his protection when necessary.

Cally's attention was caught by a girl of about six. She seemed to belong to a group of women who were standing somewhat away, talking merrily. The eldest woman was about fifty, short and greying. Even from this distance Cally noticed her very dark eyes. Of her two companions, one was tall and the other shorter and chubbier. Both had striking dark hair and a superficial likeness that proclaimed them sisters. Cally thought she'd seen the tall one among the manor's servants. She looked again at the girl, who was now strolling down towards the bank of the river that flowed silvery in the distance through the meadows. Gripped by a sudden feeling of apprehension, Cally followed her. The slope was rather steep here and she had to be careful to keep her footing. Far in front of her, the girl skipped down agilely. With her red dress and flowing dark hair she was easy to spot among the green of the grass. Despite the yellowing of the trees announcing autumn, a variety of flowers were still lushly decorating the riverbank. Having reached the bank, the girl began to pick the flowers. Cally stopped, chiding herself for her impulsive concern. The girl was staying well away from the edge. In a society like this children would be warned from a very young age about the danger of drowning.

About to return to Jenna, Cally saw the girl bring a large flower up to her nose. Something - an insect? - flew from it into the girl's face. Startled, she began to step backwards - towards the river. Cally saw her raise her arms to ward off the insect. It kept coming at her and the girl moved further back.

Shouting a warning, Cally began to run again. She knew what would happen even before the girl toppled backwards into the water. Running, Cally tried to untie the strings of her heavy dress. No use, the knots were too tight! Holding up her skirt with one hand, she raced down the slope.

//Blake. Avon. The river. A girl is drowning. Come and help me!// Panting, she reached the bank. The girl was struggling in midstream, caught by the current, already some thirty metres away. Cally jumped into the water. For a moment its coldness numbed her. She began to swim. The current was unexpectedly strong. She let it take her, using her arms to gain extra speed. Keeping her head above the water, she was just able to see the red of the girl's dress. Cally was a good swimmer.

Slowly she began to gain on the girl. Twenty metres, ten, five, three. Cally could see the swaying arms, caught a glimpse of the dark head... Then the girl sank before her eyes. Cally dived after her. Forcing herself to let out her breath slowly, she grabbed round her. Suddenly she caught a handful of fabric. Lungs almost bursting, she shot upwards, pulling the girl with her. Treading water, Cally took a better grip on her charge. She felt an arm, then managed to pull the head above the water. For a moment she thought it was too late, then the girl began to cough and struggle. //Keep calm!// She put all her power of persuasion into the silent admonishment. //We'll get out of here, but you must keep still. Just hold on tight. Trust me!//

The sheer panic in the dark eyes made way for understanding. The girl's arms closed around Cally's neck, but she did not struggle again. Cally let herself drift with the current while trying to edge to the bank. The winding river suddenly widened out and she found herself in calmer water. Mindful to keep the girl's head above water, she began to swim to the bank. At last she felt muddy ground under her feet. Awkwardly she waded the last few metres, hampered by her long skirt. In her arms the girl seemed to gain weight with every step she took. Cally became aware of shouts. People came running towards her, Blake and Avon in the lead. His boots forced Avon into an ungraceful trot. Blake was holding up the skirt of his habit with both hands, revealing hairy legs. Cally realised that what for her had felt like hours, could not have been more than a few minutes. The bank was about a metre high here. She reached it at the same moment as Blake and Avon. They knelt down, stretching out their hands to help her up.

"That was stupid," Avon said. His words hurt, despite the fact she could sense the worry he tried to hide.

"Take the child, Avon!" She gently loosened the girl's hands from her neck. //It's alright. You're safe now.!//

Avon took the dripping child from her with overt reluctance. The girl immediately threw her arms around his neck and clung to him. Cally savoured the look of pure distaste on his face. Then she accepted Blake's hand and with his help managed to climb onto the bank.

"The child seems to be unharmed," Blake said. Cally followed his gaze to the girl, who was resisting Avon's attempt to free himself from her embrace. His tunic and cloak were turning a darker shade of blue where the water seeped into the cloth.

"My people have a saying. A deed of compassion can never be stupid."

Just visible above the girl's dark head, Avon's eyes shot fire at her. "Which bears witness to the Auronar's lack of sense."

Suddenly they were surrounded by the villagers. Avon swiftly pushed the girl into the arms of the nearest woman. "Give Cally your cloak, Vila," he said.

She saw Vila emerge from the crowd. "Why me?"

But he obeyed. Now the crisis was over Cally became aware of the cold air and her wet clothes clinging to her body.

Shivering, she let herself be led back to the manor, while Lady Beatrice sent servants running to heat up the fire and lay out towels and dry clothes. Not keen on undressing in front of the kitchen fire, where servants kept walking in and out, Cally headed straight for the guestroom. She was followed by her crewmates and half the household members. Gratefully she left it to Jenna to shoo them out, leaving only a maid who was carrying a heap of towels. Helped by Jenna, Cally got out of her wet clothes. The towels were finely woven and they dried wonderfully. The maid, whom she now recognised as the tall woman from the group she'd noticed outside the church, cheerfully helped to rub her dry.

"Thank you, I can manage now," Cally said, wrapping the largest towel around her body.

"I'll get you a warm drink," Jenna said, moving to the door. "And someone should have dug up some dry clothes by now!" She left the room.

Cally sat down on the bed. The maid began to pick up the wet clothes, which Jenna had left on the floor. Casting Cally a shy look, she said, "Thank you, good lady, for saving my niece." Cally had to strain to understand her words, therefore it took a moment for their significance to sink in.

"That girl is your kin?"

"Kathryn is my niece, lady, the daughter of my younger sister Lucy. I'm Lidwyn."

"I'm glad I managed to save your niece, Lidwyn." Cally remembered Avon's advice about letting the servants talk about the murder. This seemed a good opportunity to bring the subject up. "You've already had a death in the village lately, haven't you?" When the maid didn't react, Cally added, "I mean the murder of Brother Anselm." The maid's right hand came up to make the sign Cally had observed during the religious service, touching her forehead, heart, left and right shoulder. It must be a sign to keep the Evil away.

"Mother says it's the beginning of the apocalypse. That the Last Judgement is near." That sounded like some religious prophesy - the Auron legends were full of those too. "Who would want to do so foul a deed, lady?" the maid went on. "To slay a holy monk, and condemn one's soul for eternity?"

Cally suddenly felt a stab of envy for these people, sheltered from the Federation's atrocities. How peaceful it must be to live in a world where the death of an individual still mattered. "You must have thought about the murderer, Lidwyn. Who do you think it might have been?"

The maid looked shocked. "It would be a sin, lady, to think so low of any soul." Which did not bring them any further.

Cally was still trying to think of another useful question, when the door was opened and Joanna entered, carrying some clothes. Lady Beatrice's maid spread out the clothes on the bed; an off-white long-sleeved ankle-length shirt and a dark green dress with embroidered hems. "These are mine, Cally. I think they will fit you well enough." Cally got the impression Joanna wasn't too keen to lend them out. Perhaps they, along with the ones she wore, were all the clothes she possessed.

"Thank you, Joanna. It will only be for a while, until my own clothes have dried."

While she was still speaking, Jenna returned, carrying a large cup. "I had to wait until they got it ready." She handed the cup to Cally. "It's warm spiced wine, the best cure for cold, they say." Cally took a tentative sip, alarmed by the adjective 'spiced'. But the brew tasted pleasant, and brought a gentle warmth to her innards, making her realise how cold she still was. She drank gratefully, not lowering the cup before it was empty. Meanwhile Joanna was ordering Lidwyn to put Cally's clothes out to dry. The maid departed.

"We were talking about the murder, Joanna," Cally said, holding out the empty cup to her, "and whether anyone has any clue about the killer." The woman's features set. Her spine seemed to become rigid. She raised her chin, eyeing Cally as if she'd just made her an indecent proposal.

"Wales may be different, but here we do not presume to discuss such matters! God sees all. He knows the truth and will see the guilty punished in his own good time." She snatched the cup from Cally's hand and sailed out.

Sighing, Cally picked up the fresh clothes. "So much for Avon's idea of questioning the servants!"

* * *

Trying to show some interest in her hostess's needlework, Jenna stifled a yawn. Must be the fresh air, she thought. The shutters of every window in the room were open. And since the windows held no glass, that meant an abundance of fresh air. The shutters would be closed in a gale, she supposed, but probably not for anything less, as it would put the room in darkness. Candles must be expensive, judging by their scarcity in the house, and didn't give off much light anyway. Jenna felt a sudden gratitude for having been born in a more civilised time. At least the Federation's domes were environmentally controlled. It must be about noon. They had finished the belated breakfast which, Jenna assumed, had also served as lunch. Blake and Avon had gone with Sir Thomas to the inn to question the people who had seen Brother Anselm off on his fatal journey. Vila, playing the role of faithful servant, had trudged after Avon. Cally had gone to the guestroom. Jenna had told her to get some rest but it was more likely she would embark upon those Auron relaxation exercises she had recently begun to try to impose upon her crewmates. Beatrice had sent her maid Joanna on some errand and the other servants went about their tasks. Most would be employed in the kitchen, since Beatrice had announced that they would prepare a special dinner for the honoured guests that night.

All this had left Jenna in the sole company of Beatrice. They were seated next to the largest window, where Beatrice could catch the best light for her sewing. Jenna was surprised she could produce such fine stitching. The garment taking shape under her hands seemed to be intended for a very small child. It dawned on Jenna that the bulge around Beatrice's waist must indicate a pregnancy. "Your first child?" she asked. Although she'd seen some children around the house, none of them had borne any resemblance to the Lord and Lady.

"Oh no." Beatrice smiled. "My daughter's already married and with child. God willing I'll be a grandmother before the year is out." Jenna found that difficult to believe; she'd estimated Beatrice to be in her early thirties. But if she'd been married at fifteen, and bore her first child at sixteen, and if that child also married at fifteen and produced a child within the year, a woman could indeed become a grandmother at thirty-two. "My son is being educated at my brother's household - the ... " Jenna didn't catch the name, but the way Beatrice uttered it indicated a family of importance. Jenna was beginning to get somewhat used to the accent, although she still had to strain and concentrate hard. Being used to Terran being spoken on all colonised worlds, she found the concept of various languages for the occupants of one planet difficult to grasp. But the people here seemed to see nothing strange in her tongue differing from theirs. "I had three other sons and a daughter," Beatrice continued. "God took them to heaven."

They must have died, Jenna interpreted. Of course, before the development of adequate medical care many children had died in infancy. She didn't know what to say to that. A commiseration might be regarded as blasphemy, if one was not supposed to question god's actions. And maybe the dead children were considered to be better off with their god in heaven than with their parents on Earth. Better change the subject. "It was good of your maid to provide dry clothes for mine."

"It was the least we could do to repay her for saving Kathryn's life. Your maid is very brave. Do all Welsh women swim?"

"Not all," Jenna improvised. "You know the girl?"

"Kathryn is the daughter of Lucy who works at the inn. Lucy's sister Lidwyn is one of the maids here. Kathryn lives with her grandmother, the widow Agnes, who's our midwife."

"Midwife?"

"Wise woman, who helps the women at childbirth. Don't you have midwives in Wales?"

"We have a different name for them."

Seeing her hostess nod, Jenna reflected that Avon had been right - apparently any blunder could be explained away by them being Welsh. Until a real Welshman turned up, of course. With their luck, that was almost to be expected! She cast her attention back to Beatrice, who was saying something about the girl's grandmother.

"...A good midwife, but irritating with her visions! The day after the Feast she came to me, blabbing about a distortion of time. I told her to go to Father Edmund. He'll have taken her to task - our priest has no time for hysterical women."

Grateful for the opening, Jenna jumped in. "That murder must have been a shock for all of you."

Beatrice nodded. "It puts Thomas into a difficult position. He will be held responsible for catching the killer, but of course that will be impossible."

Jenna leaned forward, gripped by excitement. Was she on to something? "Why?"

Beatrice raised her shapely eyebrows. "Don't you see, Lady Jenna? It must be the work of the devil. And he will never be caught - not by mortals."


	3. Chapter 3

  
So far so good, Blake thought, walking at Sir Thomas's side. They had come through the religious service with their cover story still intact. And Cally rescuing that girl must have brought them the goodwill of the villagers. Thank the stars Cally had come out of that unharmed. Seeing her in the water had given him a scare. And not only him - Avon too, although he'd never admit it! Blake smiled to himself; he had not thought Avon could run so fast in those boots. Avon, strutting along at Thomas's other side with Vila in his wake, must be regretting his choice of footwear by now. SERVES HIM RIGHT! Blake began to feel better. The soreness in his throat was gone. With a bit of luck, they would find a clue about the murderer at the inn. Once they'd solved the case, they could concentrate on the problem of their return to Liberator.

Most of the fields they passed were empty - clearly the harvest was in. The hedges still bore an abundance of berries. The few people they met stepped aside reverently to let them pass, mumbling a greeting.

They came upon an orchard, trees full of apples almost ready to pick. "This is Jack's orchard, and that's the inn." Sir Thomas pointed at a building whose thatched roof nearly reached the ground. It must be the largest house in the village after the manor, Blake judged, and like that it was surrounded by a scattering of outhouses. A maid, carrying two buckets, disappeared into a low-roofed shed. A horse's whinny came from a sturdy building that must be the stables. Behind that, the wood began, the ground rising gently.

Avon was eyeing the dense forest with the wariness of a dome dweller. "Is this the way Brother Anselm came?" He indicated a well-trodden path emerging from the wood.

"Yes," Thomas said, briskly guiding them to the main building. "Woodbrook Priory is to the South-east." Stepping through the open door, he shouted, "Jack!"

Blake followed him in. This must be the taproom. Backless benches were placed in a circle round the fireplace, now cold, in the centre. A man emerged from a door in the back wall. He appeared to be in his full prime, short but muscular, with a square face, snub nose, blond curly hair and a reddish beard. Blake remembered seeing him in church that morning.

"Jack Bull, the innkeeper," Thomas introduced. "Lord Avon and Brother Blake are here to investigate Brother Anselm's death, Jack." The innkeeper greeted them respectfully. His surname fitted him, Blake reflected. He'd seen pictures of bulls and with his broad shoulders and thick neck Jack distinctly resembled one.

Blake turned to his host. "Thank you, Sir Thomas. We'll find our own way back to the manor." From the corner of his eye he saw Avon frown in disapproval.

Sir Thomas himself didn't seem happy about being dismissed. For a moment it looked as though he was going to refuse, then he said stiffly, "As you wish, Brother. I'll see you at the manor, then." He retreated with overt dignity.

"We can't afford to antagonise him," Avon muttered in Blake's ear.

"The people here will talk more freely in his absence," Blake whispered back. Aloud he said, "Well, Jack, it must have been a shock to have one of your guests murdered."

The man nodded. "It was indeed, Brother. I hope you catch the rogues. Having a band of killers on the loose is bad for business."

"You think this was the work of outlaws?" Avon asked.

"Stands to reason, but our Lord of the Manor is too proud to concede he can't keep the woods free of them." Exactly Blake's opinion. "But what am I doing, leaving you standing here?" Jack continued. "Please sit down, good sirs. I'll get you some pints of my special brew. On the house, of course."

"No, thank you, Jack," Blake said quickly. "I want to get on with the enquiry. You can show us your guestroom."

"And tell us about Brother Anselm's stay here," Avon added.

"Right, gentlemen. This way." They followed Jack through the kitchen into a narrow corridor with three doors in the opposite wall. Jack opened the nearest door. "This is the guestroom." Blake stepped inside, followed by the others. The room was very small, with just enough free floor space to hold the four of them. It contained nothing except a large bed and a low wooden chest. The place looked reasonably clean; the floor of beaten earth had been swept and the bed was made, covered by a thick, blue spread.

"So this is where Anselm stayed," Blake said.

"He was alone?" Avon asked Jack. "You had no other guests?"

"No milord, and have not had any since. This room is exactly as the good Brother left it."

Blake gestured at the window. "Someone looking in could have seen the money belt while Anselm undressed," he said to Avon.

"The Brother kept the shutters closed while he was in here," Jack said, casually leaning against the wall. Blake saw they could be fastened from the inside. From the ceiling hung the customary tiny oil lamp, now unlit.

"Vila," Avon said, "close those shutters."

"But we'll be in the dark!"

"Do it!"

Vila obeyed, throwing the room in darkness. "I don't like the dark."

"As you can see, there are no peepholes," Jack said.

"Evidently." Avon's voice was dry. "Right, Vila, you can open them again." Light streamed into the room.

Time to seize the initiative, Blake decided. "Tell us about your household, Jack."

"There's my mother, she's old but still sharp, she sees to the brewing. The cooking is done by my sister, Ann. She and her husband Robert and their son have their own cottage, beyond the kitchen garden."

"Would that be the Robert Cross-eye who found the body?" Avon enquired.

"That's right, milord. He'd been to the Fair, in Town."

He made it sound like the fair was an important event. Must be a kind of annual market, Blake surmised.

"Then there's Floris," Jack continued, "the ostler -"

"Ostler?" Avon interrupted.

"Head groom - for the horses. He and the stable boy, Aelwin, sleep in the hayloft above the stables. And the maids sleep in my mother's room, where she can keep an eye on them. I'll show you." Jack left the room. They followed. In the corridor he pointed at the far door. "That's my mother's room." He indicated the middle door. "I sleep here."

"Did Anselm meet any of the villagers?" Blake asked.

"Not that I know of." Jack began to move to the kitchen.

Back in the taproom, Avon asked, "What kind of impression did Anselm give?"

"Tired, milord. He was old and frail, ill-suited for such a long journey, I thought."

"He told you where he was bound?" Blake asked.

"Yes, Brother. But not for what purpose." Jack gestured at the benches. "Will you sit down? Or maybe you'd rather sit outside in this fine weather, gentlemen?"

"Yes," Blake said.

"No," Avon snapped.

Blake shrugged. "All right, we'll sit inside." It wasn't worth arguing about.

Jack made for the inner door. "I'll get you that ale."

"Not for me, thank you," Avon said.

"I could've drunk yours, Avon," Vila said crossly, when the innkeeper had gone to fetch the beer. "I don't suppose he'll bring something for me." They sat down on a bench.

Jack Bull returned with a large mug which he handed to Blake. He remained standing. Blake took a tentative sip. The brew had a pleasant taste. "Excellent," he told the innkeeper, who seemed eager for praise. He took a large swig, then resumed the questioning. "At what time did Anselm arrive?"

"Just after sunset. He came riding into the courtyard. Floris helped him off his horse and took it to the stables. I showed him to the guestroom, he paid for two nights."

Avon leaned forward. "Where did he keep his money?"

"In his purse. It wasn't a fat one."

"Was that purse found on the body?"

"I wouldn't know, milord."

"We can ask Thomas that," Blake said impatiently. "But it doesn't seem likely."

"It's the first thing a robber would likely take," Jack remarked.

"Interesting that Anselm intended to stay for two days," Avon observed. "That could indicate he wanted to meet someone here. Why else waste a day on such a long journey?"

"He wouldn't want to travel on the Saint's day," Jack said.

That made sense to Blake. "So, Anselm paid you. What did he do next?"

"He took the evening meal here with us. Then he went to bed. The next morning he sang mass with Father Edmund. It had been a dismal morning but towards noon the sun came out and he spent the afternoon outside, on a bench in the shade. Again he went to bed straight after the evening meal. He told me he intended not to hurry and we were to have his horse ready and serve him breakfast at mid-morning. That's what I did."

"You waited upon him yourself?" Avon asked.

"Of course, milord. It wouldn't do to have a maid serve a monk. Brother Anselm was a pious man."

Blake finished his beer, irritated by Avon's interruption. The question seemed irrelevant. "Go on, Jack."

"Well, Brother, there's really not much more to tell. I took the good Brother's breakfast to his room when I went to wake him. I'd already seen to it that his horse was ready - had to do that myself as Floris had managed to get himself drunk at the feast. I tried to wake him, Floris I mean, but he just went on snoring. Anyway, as I said, I helped the Brother onto his horse, set him onto the road and that's the last I saw of him."

"Right." Blake rose, handing Jack his empty mug. "Now I want to talk to the man who found the body. Robert Cross-eye, wasn't it? You can take me to him. Meanwhile, Avon, you go and question the stable lads, Floris and ...?"

"Aelwin," Jack said. "You won't get anything out of them, Brother. As I said, Floris was drunk. And Aelwin is deaf and dumb. It's just that he's so damned good with horses, otherwise I'd have kicked him out long ago. But you can't speak with him."

"The Lord Avon is very inventive." Blake held up his hand to stifle Avon's objection. "It'll be quicker if we split up."

"As you wish." Haughtily, Avon turned his back to him. "Come Vila, let's find the stables."

"Robert'll be in his cottage," Jack told Blake. "I'll show you the way, Brother."

* * *

As soon as they were out of sight of the taproom door, Avon stopped. "The stable's that way," Vila said.

"You go on and talk to the stable boys," Avon instructed, making up his mind. "I want to hear what this Robert Cross-eye has to say."

"You don't trust Blake to ask the right questions?"

"Blake is convinced that the murder is the work of outlaws. That'll influence his investigation. He's bound to select only those facts that seem to corroborate his theory, ignoring any others."

"You discard the outlaw theory?"

"I'm keeping an open mind." Pressing himself against the wall of the inn, Avon risked a quick glance round the corner. He saw Blake and the innkeeper heading for a small building. "That must be the cottage. If I keep in the shadow of those bushes, I must be able to reach the back without being seen." He gave Vila a push to get him into motion. "You go on to the stables."

Vila stumbled a pace and came to a halt. "But I don't get on with horses."

"You don't have to question the HORSES."

"But you heard Jack, one chap was drunk and the other's dumb."

"You ought to get on with both, then."

Avon set off, bending low to keep behind the bushes. He was in luck, they came right up to the back of the cottage. The shutters on the back window were wide open. Pressing himself to the wall, his head just out of sight of the window, Avon could hear all that was said inside.

Apparently Jack had just finished the introduction, because Blake was saying, "That is all, Jack." Avon grimaced; Blake sometimes reminded him of a particularly irritating schoolmaster. "Well, Robert," Blake's voice was clearly audible above the rustle of leaves and birdsong, "tell me how you found the body."

"I was on my way home, from the Fair." The man had a low voice and a slow way of speaking. "When I came past the hut, I saw the door was open."

"And you decided to investigate?" Blake sounded impatient.

"It was the flies."

"FLIES?"

"Lot of them, buzzing and heading for the hut. I thought maybe a fox had brought in its prey."

"So you went in. And found Brother Anselm."

"I did, Brother. Didn't know who he was, though."

"You didn't recognise him?"

"I'd never seen him before. It was only when I came back to the inn and told them, that Jack said the dead monk must be Brother Anselm, who'd been staying over the Feast."

"You hadn't seen him at the inn?"

"Brother, I told you, I was at the Fair. I stayed in Town with my sister for two nights."

"I see. Now, let's go back to the hut. Where was the body lying?"

"Just inside the doorway. I nearly stumbled over him."

"You saw he was dead?"

"Aye. He was blue, with his tongue sticking out and a bloody gash round his neck."

"Did it look as though he was killed there, or had his body been dumped?"

"Don't know. One look was enough. I galloped off to the manor to warn the Under-Sheriff."

"So you didn't notice whether his purse was still on him?"

"He was in his shift, Brother. I remember that."

"Is there anything else you remember?"

"No, Brother."

Avon didn't wait for Blake's speech of thanks. He swiftly retreated the way he had come, made a detour round the back of the inn and headed for the stables. In the yard in front of the stables a youngster in a brown tunic and hose was busy grooming a horse. Vila was nowhere in sight. Avon walked up to the boy, who did not look up from his task. Avon cleared his throat. The boy, whose greasy brown hair hung onto his shoulders, still didn't give any sign that he'd heard. Must be the deaf and dumb one, Avon deduced. "Anyone around?" he called. A man appeared from the stables. His mop of blond hair was tousled and sprigs of hay clung to his rumpled clothes. Holding a pitchfork in his hands, he stepped forward with an ostentatious air of activity. Probably to hide the fact he'd been idling, Avon thought, recognising the signs. Vila could look exactly the same.

"At your service, good Sir," the man said.

"Who are you?" Avon asked.

"Floris the Ostler, Sir." His brown eyes studied Avon. "You must be the lord from Wales."

"You guessed it in one, Floris. I'm here to assist Brother Blake in finding the killer of Brother Anselm. What can you tell me about that case?"

Floris scratched his head with his free hand. "Nothing, lord. I regret to say I was drunk at the time he left here. I hope you solve the crime, though. Some people here have begun to cast me strange looks." He planted his pitchfork in the ground and leant on it lazily. "It's only natural, I suppose, to point the finger at the outsider."

"Outsider? You're not from here?"

"I'm from Holland."

Where the hell would that be? Avon thought.

"Of course they'd rather blame a crime on a stranger than on one of their own," Floris continued. He snorted. "As if I'd still be here if I'd got my hands on such a load of money! If I'd known he was going to be done in, I'd probably have started running anyway, just to be on the safe side."

"So you did know about the money?" Avon asked casually.

"Not then! One of the Under-Sheriffs men told us about it when they came back from returning the body to Woodbrook."

"And at the time of the murder you were very conveniently drunk."

Floris lowered his eyes. "I'm not proud of it! I should have been more moderate - don't know what came over me. It's just that the ale seemed to keep coming my way." He gave a rueful grin. "It's a miracle Jack didn't sack me. Mind, he did give me a grilling! And he made it clear he won't tolerate a next time."

"You'd better keep that in mind then." Avon gestured at the youngster who was still on his task of grooming the horse. "What about him?"

"Aelwin never gets drunk. No-one would give him enough ale for that. They make him do with water most of the time, anyway."

"I mean, how do you communicate?"

"We don't. Well, I manage to make his tasks clear to him. He does them mostly on his own initiative, anyway. Aelwin's a hard worker, and very good with horses." Probably did most of Floris's share of the work as well, Avon mused. "But you can't talk with him, milord. It's not only that he's deaf - the good God didn't provide him with many wits either."

That settled it, Avon decided. It was no use wasting time on a half-wit, he was doing enough of that on Liberator! Which reminded him, he'd better go and find Vila before THAT half-wit got himself into trouble.

* * *

Vila had set out in the direction of the stables very reluctantly. He hated spending energy on futile tasks. What was the use of trying to get information from someone who'd been dead drunk and wouldn't remember anything? (Vila knew the feeling; he still couldn't remember a thing about his trip to Space City!) Or from someone who was dumb? His steps became slower and slower until they halted altogether. He turned round, facing the inn again. The entrance to the taproom seemed to beckon him. Indecisively he stood, until he saw a girl, carrying a bucket, going inside. Her simple russet dress couldn't hide her shapely figure. A pity her long skirts hid her legs. Vila hurried back to the inn. The taproom was empty. "Anyone there?" he called.

The girl came from the inner door. "You want custom?"

"Why, yes. Wine would be fine."

"Wine is expensive. Show your money."

For a moment Vila felt deflated. Then he reached into his pocket and brought up some coins. "Here, this enough?"

She eyed the coins in his hand warily. "I don't know these."

"Of course not." Vila decided to take a gamble. "This is Welsh money." In truth they were leftovers from his trip to Space City. "Honest Welsh money. You go and ask my Lord Avon."

Suddenly she smiled, taking one of the coins. "I know who you are. You are the Welsh Lord's valet."

"Vila." He made a graceful bow. "At your service, fair lady."

She giggled. "I'll get your wine." She returned with a jar and an earthenware cup, which she placed on one of the benches.

Vila sat down beside them. "What's your name?" he asked, inviting her with a gesture to take place at his other side.

She sat down. "Lucy." Her brown eyes studied him with overt curiosity. She had a pretty face, which was framed by a pair of thick dark braids. Vila took a swig and almost choked. This must be the stuff you were supposed to dilute with water! It warmed him nicely, though. As did the girl's admiring gaze. "You must be very clever, to be working for a Lord," she said.

"Oh yes, and he's glad to have me. He relies on me, you know."

"They say he's here to find the monk's killer."

"And he will, with my help." Vila remembered Avon's admonishment to pump the servants. "Get yourself a cup." Giggling, she obeyed. Vila filled it for her from the jar, then topped up his own cup. "You must have seen him when he stayed here - Brother Anselm, I mean. What was he like?"

"A pious prig, the sort who thinks it's a sin to look at a woman. Always kept his gaze away. Wouldn't even greet me when he left! I said good-bye very politely, but he just shuffled past me, all wrapped up in his cowl, his head turned away as if he was afraid of turning into a salt pillar just by looking at me!" She brought the cup to her lips and took an angry sip.

"Who do you think did him in?" Vila asked.

Lucy stood, moved to the inner door and carefully closed it. "We're not supposed to think about that. 'Leave it to God', that's what Old Ethel says." She cast a wary glance at the door. "Jack's mother. You'd think she's the lady of the manor, for all the airs she puts on."

"I won't tell her."

Lucy sat down again. "Floris is the obvious choice. Pity it can't have been him!" Her nearness and the wine caused a warm feeling in Vila's chest.

"Why?"

"Because he was dead drunk. Even after Jack had managed to rouse him, he couldn't walk straight for more than two steps."

Vila emptied and filled his cup again. He was beginning to enjoy playing detective. "What makes him the obvious choice?"

"Why, because he's killed before. That's why he was banned from his native country."

"You mean he's not from here?"

"With such a name? He's from over the sea. They say he stabbed a man in a drunken brawl. He was exiled instead of hanged because the other had drawn his knife first."

Vila emptied his cup and refilled it once more. "How do you know all that?"

"From a traveller who knew him out there. Told us we'd better keep either the ale away from Floris or his knife, for that combination could be lethal. And Jack has taken heed of that, because on the night of the Feast, when Floris lay senseless, I saw him remove Floris's knife from his belt."

Vila hiccuped. "You don't say so." He drank, not stopping until the cup was empty again. He knew he should be more moderate, but this wine tasted so good. Aiming carefully, he poured the last wine from the jug into his cup.

"I tell you I saw it," Lucy said. "I asked Jack what he was doing and he said it wasn't my business and I said 'Are you making sure he can't stab anyone while he's tight?' and he said yes, if I must know, that was it."

A warm dizziness settled upon Vila. He tried to think of some more questions to ask, but couldn't focus his mind on them. Couldn't focus his eyes, either, as he knew there was something wrong with the apparitions coming into his view. TWO Avons? "Hey, one of you is bad enough!"

He was roughly pulled to his feet and turned around while Avon's voice cut through his head. "I do not condone drunkenness from my valet!"

"Not so loud! Ouch!" Propelled into action by a savage kick to his buttocks, Vila stumbled from the taproom.

* * *

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, Blake." Cally began to feel a bit awkward under his solicitousness. "I'm fine."

They were in the manor's guestroom. Cally was sitting on the edge of the bed, flanked by Jenna and Vila. The latter rested his head in his hands, moaning softly. Avon stood leaning against the wall, arms folded, surveying the scene with his usual air of detachment.

"You're sure you didn't ingest any river water?" Blake insisted, leaning over her. "It must be full of all kinds of nasty germs and we don't have any medicines to counteract them."

"Something to keep in mind for next time you see fit to drag us off to a primitive society," Avon remarked.

Blake straightened, casting him an acid glance. "If we'd gone to Simantran as planned, this would not have happened."

//Avon,// Cally warned, //don't make things more difficult for him than they are.//

"For HIM?" Avon hissed.

"Let's get on," Jenna said. "Or we'll never get this finished before dinner."

"Right. Let's see what we've learned so far." Blake began to pace the room, embarking upon an account of his interviews with the innkeeper and Robert Cross-eye. Cally saw that Avon, despite his pose of indifference, was following every word. "All of which," Blake finished, "points to the murder being the work of outlaws."

"Does it?" Avon asked.

Blake turned to him, visibly keeping his patience. "Did your talk with the stable lads yield anything?"

"No, but then you knew it wouldn't."

Vila raised his head from his hands. "I found -"

"Jenna?" Blake asked.

She shrugged. "According to Lady Beatrice the murder's the work of the devil."

Cally felt bewildered. "What's the devil?"

"Bloke with horns and hooves," Vila said.

"The personification of Evil," Blake explained.

Vila grinned. "Do you remember that episode of MANOR MAIDENS, Avon? Where they all got scared because people's houses got burgled and they found hoof marks outside, and one victim saw a horned figure run away and they thought it must be the devil. But it turned out to be the shoemaker who'd made himself a pair of hoofshaped-soled shoes and a horned mask."

Cally saw Jenna roll her eyes.

"Let's stick to the point," Blake said.

"Right," Vila agreed. "I know -"

"Cally?" Blake asked.

//Maybe you should listen to Vila first.//

"I asked you!"

She shrugged. "I spoke with some of the maids. The dark-haired one..." For a moment the name escaped her, then she recalled, "Lidwyn, doesn't want to think bad of anyone. And Joanna says we should leave it to god."

"I was there," Jenna remarked. "Obviously she considers it a sin even to think about who the murderer might be."

Avon suddenly looked interested. "Or maybe she knows who the murderer is and wants to shield him."

"It didn't sound like that," Jenna said.

Cally took her time to think it over. "I didn't sense any deceit in her. I think she was honest, and meant what she said."

"Or else she's a damned good liar," Jenna observed.

"Lidwyn is an aunt of the girl I rescued," Cally said, remembering their conversation. "Her sister Lucy, is the mother of the child."

"Lucy?" Vila exclaimed. "I spoke with a Lucy at the inn."

"That must be her," Jenna said. "Beatrice told me the girl's mother works there."

"No, it can't be." Vila shook his head. "She's too young to have a child. Or maybe not. However... " He rose, putting his hands on his hips while squaring his shoulders. "While you've all wasted your time questioning the wrong people, I've found out who the killer is."

"Remarkable," Avon observed, visibly unimpressed.

"What did he drink over there?" Jenna asked Avon.

"Then tell us, Vila," Blake said.

"It's Floris."

Avon raised his eyebrows. "She told you that?"

"Yes. Well, she says he's the obvious candidate, only it can't be him because he was drunk." Vila snorted. "It's easy to pretend being drunk."

"Is that a confession?" Avon asked sweetly.

"Vila," Cally said, "did she tell you why he's the obvious candidate?"

Avon snorted. "Because he's a foreigner, no doubt! People always like to blame an outsider. You should know that, Cally."

"Because he's killed before." Vila cast them a triumphant look. "In his homeland he stabbed someone to death and got exiled for it."

"Brother Anselm wasn't stabbed," Avon observed.

"That's because Floris didn't have his knife handy, this time," Vila said. "Jack had taken it from him." They listened to his account of what the maid had told him. It seemed flimsy reasoning. "And that's not all," Vila went on. "With his assistant being deaf and dumb, Floris could sneak away without having to worry about him grassing on him."

Of course, in this primitive society they'd have no means to redress a handicap. Cally tried to imagine being deaf and thus unable to communicate. "Telepathy is not dependent on the sense of hearing. I could try to communicate with that assistant."

"No!" She found Jenna's hand on her arm. "These people are very superstitious, Cally. If they get wind of your telepathy, they may regard you as a witch."

"Jenna's right," Avon said. "We can't risk it."

"Better leave it to us, Cally." Blake turned to Avon. "This is something we should look into, find out whether it was possible for Floris to sneak away while he was supposedly sleeping off his hangover."

"Does this mean we've abandoned our outlaw theory?" Avon's voice was sugary sweet.

"We're keeping all options open," Blake snapped. "You questioned him, Avon. I take it he didn't refer to his past?"

"No, but then, it's not the kind of information one volunteers. He did express a fear of being accused, though, and I can now see why. He said if he'd known the monk would get killed, he'd have started running just to be on the safe side."

"Maybe he's bluffing," Blake said, "in the hope that his staying is taken as proof of his innocence."

Vila shook his head. "That's stupid. I mean, why take the risk? You know my motto: steal and run!"

"Straight into the police's arms, by your record," Avon sneered. Vila cast him a hurt look.

"He has a point," Jenna said. "It's safer to run."

"Travel takes time here," Blake observed. "Perhaps the body being discovered so soon made him change his mind."

"But why leave the body to be found?" Jenna rose and began to move to the window while speaking. "The murderer could have buried it. That would have given him time to get away before the victim was missed."

"He must have thought it was well hidden in that hut," Blake remarked.

"No; it was discovered by the first passer-by," Avon said. "Did this Robert Cross-eye tell you, Blake, why he stopped to check the hut?" Cally got the impression he already knew the answer.

"He noticed the door was open. And a lot of flies."

"Yuck!" Vila said.

"So our murderer carries the body to the hut," Avon observed, "then leaves the door conveniently open, inviting inspection by the first traveller passing."

Jenna turned away from the window, frowning. "That makes no sense."

In a flash Cally saw the obvious. "Unless he WANTED the body to be found."

"Well now." Avon smiled at her. "That seems to be the only logical assumption."

"But why?" Vila asked.

"What would have happened," Cally wondered aloud, "if the body had not been found?"

Jenna shrugged. "Supposedly, a search would have been organised."

"With the lack of communication and the poor travel facilities," Blake said, "it might well have taken weeks before Anselm's disappearance became known."

"But he would've been missed eventually," Jenna said. "And then an investigation would have been launched."

"Yes." Avon's eyes began to shine. Cally could sense his sudden excitement. "The investigation would've been concentrated on the last place Anselm had been seen alive: this village."

"That's it!" Blake snapped his fingers. "That's why the body had to be found. To prove that Anselm was alive and well when he left THIS village."

"You mean the murderer doesn't want the authorities snooping around here?" Vila asked.

"Exactly," Avon said. "We can assume that the murderer's intention was that the killing would be attributed to outlaws. For that reason, the body had to be found."

"Then why not leave it on the road?" Jenna asked.

"An animal might have dragged it away," Cally said. "Dumping the corpse in a structure diminished that risk."

"True," Blake said thoughtfully. "Ultimately, the plan didn't work because the murderer reckoned without Sir Thomas's insistence that there aren't any outlaws within his territory."

Furrows of thought appeared on Vila's forehead. "I still don't get it. Why didn't the killer just take the money and run? I mean, he can't spend it here - people would notice."

"He must have hidden the loot," Jenna said.

"Keeping it as a nest-egg?" Vila snorted. "What's the fun in stealing a lot of money if you can't spend it?"

"He could be planning to spend the money gradually," Blake suggested.

Cally nodded. "Meanwhile, he keeps up his role of innocent member of the community."

"Like Sir Thomas," Jenna said.

Avon shook his head. "In that case Thomas would've jumped at the suggestion of the murder being the work of outlaws."

"Maybe that's how he hopes we'll reason." Jenna seemed to have made the Under-Sheriff her chief suspect.

Cally remembered her unease about Richard Pennant. "Or it could be his brother."

Vila sat down on the edge of the bed. "I still say it's Floris."

"We can't rule out Robert Cross-eye," Blake said, bringing up his hand to rub his knuckles over his chin. "He has a shifty look."

"Probably because of his squint," Avon remarked. "I take it he has a squint?"

"That doesn't exonerate him," Blake replied.

"True," Avon said calmly. "And the fact that he's the one who found the body, and reported it, puts him high on the list of suspects for you?"

"Looks like he could do with the money," Vila observed. "I mean, the tourist trade doesn't seem to be exactly booming here, if they haven't had a guest since Anselm. That inn is supposed to keep two families, isn't it? Jack and Robert's."

"I imagine the provision of lodging is just a minor sideline." Avon's voice took on a lecturing tone. "Especially as monasteries provide free lodging to travellers. No, Vila, Jack and Robert are primarily farmers, like everyone else in the village. I presume their ale being above standard draws in the villagers in the evening, although they probably pay for their drinks in goods or services rather than money."

Blake lowered his hand from his chin. "Robert could've met Anselm on the road," he said, clearly having followed his own train of thought. "He killed him, then waited until the evening to sound the alarm, pretending he'd just arrived and discovered the body."

"But of all our suspects he's the only one who can't have known about the money," Avon pointed out.

"Maybe he just killed him for whatever he might've had," Blake said. "And found the money when he stripped him."

A thought was hovering at the back of Cally's mind. She concentrated hard, again hearing Avon's words: 'A habit, Cally.' Then Vila's joke... "What happened to the dead man's habit?"

"According to Sir Thomas, it's missing," Avon replied.

"Presumably the murderer took it with him," Blake said. "Robert told me Anselm was in his shift."

"Shift?" Another word she didn't know.

Vila grinned. "A kind of night-gown."

Jenna cast him a look of contempt. "It's probably the local word for a shirt or undergarment."

"Why did you ask about his habit, Cally?" Blake asked.

"Because it's important." She was suddenly convinced of this. "I feel it..." She was spared a further explanation by a knock on the door.

Lidwyn entered. "If it pleases your Lordship, dinner is served."

"Then we must not let it get cold." With exaggerated gallantry Avon offered Jenna his hand. "My Lady?" She took the hand with a forced smile. Cally could sense her longing to make the toe of her boot connect with a sensitive part of his anatomy.

* * *

Jenna sat idly listening to the music accompanying the dinner. It sounded very primitive, a flute and some kind of string instrument, played by two of the servants. She felt dirty and unkempt. At least she'd taken a hairbrush with her, but her hair could do with a shampoo and blow dry. She could also do with a change of clothes. Next time Blake was planning a mission, she decided, she'd take a well-filled suitcase with her! Avon and Sir Thomas were discussing what must be current affairs. As far as Jenna could make out, the country was suffering under a power struggle between factions referred to as the King and the Empress. Apparently an agreement was expected about the Empress's son succeeding the King after the latter's death. She saw that Blake was following the conversation with interest. But of course, he WAS interested in history. He might even know what they were talking about. Not so Avon, who had remarked more than once that the inability of the human race to learn anything from its mistakes made the study of history a total waste of time. Yet he gave the impression of knowing what was going on. That could be bluff; as usual, his face gave nothing away. Or had he looked up the relevant facts before they'd set out? That would be proof he'd known where they would end up. Jenna was still in two minds about his responsibility for their situation. Lady Beatrice kept very quiet, sedately eating her food.

Jenna wondered whether she was expected to start a conversation with her hostess, or if the women were supposed to keep quiet while the men talked. At their tables the servants were chatting away softly but merrily. She saw Vila flirt with the maid Lidwyn while Cally appeared to enjoy the conversation of one of the archers who had accompanied Sir Thomas at their first meeting in the wood. Jenna stifled a yawn. The dinner seemed set to take the whole evening. At least she and Avon, as guests of honour, were served the best bits. Not that the food was much to her liking. She had tasted real meat before, on some of the outer planets, but preferred the synthetic variety current in the domes. The fish were full of bones and the predominant greens seemed to be cabbage and lentils, not her favourite vegetables by far. She tried something that looked like a fruit pie. Its crust tasted unexpectedly good - crisp and buttery. Incautiously she took a generous bite, then almost cursed out loud when its filling made her mouth contract. Must be some kind of berries - unsweetened. Next time, she vowed silently, she'd make sure to take a large pack of Liberator's concentrated nutrients with her. Or, better still, she'd stay on the ship, volunteering for teleport duty. Yes, she thought, savouring the prospect: leave the action to the men - let THEM suffer the hardship and deprivation!

* * *

Blake eyed the guestroom with envy, taking in the enormous, comfortable looking bed. The burning candles in the wall sconces gave the place a cosy look. Outside it was virtually dark. The window was open, intermittently admitting the moonlight when its source briefly appeared from behind the drifting clouds. Loath to return yet to his straw mattress in the priest's house, he'd followed the others to their room, on the pretext of having things to discuss. Avon picked up his cloak, which was neatly folded on a chest, and draped it over his shoulders. "I'm going to get ready for bed." Which would involve a trip to the privy in the garden, Blake understood.

"Wait, I'm coming with you," Vila said. "It's dark out there! I don't like to be on my own in the dark." Avon gave him a disdainful stare but refrained from comment, causing Blake to wonder whether he also might feel a bit uneasy outside on his own in the dark. Of course Avon would never admit to being grateful for Vila's company, Blake thought, idly watching them leave the room.

Jenna sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'd murder for a bath!" She looked like she needed one. Her hair, hanging in untidy strands onto her shoulders, had lost its gloss. On the London she'd managed to keep herself groomed, but this environment seemed to be defeating her.

Cally appeared to cope much better, Blake reflected. Must be her experience of living rough on Saurian Major. "You could have a swim in the river," Cally said, untying the strings of her borrowed dress.

Jenna gave her a wan smile. "I'm not yet that desperate!"

Blake rubbed his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble. He too was in need of some grooming. "I noticed Avon and Vila have shaved."

"Yes, Avon has come prepared," Jenna observed. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"This isn't Avon's doing, Jenna," Cally said.

"He's enjoying himself too much," Jenna argued.

Blake grinned. "He certainly likes to be treated like a lord."

"I'd have expected him," Jenna continued, "to be dreadfully unhappy without computers."

"He likes the challenge of the investigation," Cally said.

"He knows too much about this time," Jenna persisted. "When has he ever shown the slightest interest in history - especially that of a non-technical period?"

"I am not interested in history," came Avon's voice from the doorway. Turning, Blake saw him step into the room. "My mother was, though," Avon went on while Vila shuffled in after him. "In fact, she was a renowned historian, one of the leading experts in the field of Medieval England. She used to ply me with historical facts whether or not I wanted to hear them. She also acted as historical advisor on MANOR MAIDENS. That's why I watched the series, Vila."

"You mean you know where we are, and when?" Blake felt an irrational resentment; SOMEDAY he'd come upon another subject, besides neuro-surgery, that Avon knew absolutely nothing about!

"We're somewhere in England, not too close to the Welsh border, around the mid-12th Century."

"Yes, I'd worked that out too." It came out more acerbic than Blake intended.

Avon produced a brief smile. "Not that this is of much use to us. Regrettably my knowledge does not stretch to information about this murder case."

Blake was for a moment distracted. "It would be interesting to see whether a source mentioning it actually exists."

"It must," Avon said. "How else could Orac have known about it?"

Blake gave Avon a hard stare. "You mean that Orac brought us here deliberately to solve this crime?"

"It's the only assumption that makes sense. That machine appears to have a disconcerting appetite for initiating experiments." Avon's cold gaze came to rest on Blake. "And you obligingly made us walk into its trap."

Blake clenched his fists, fighting a longing to hit him. "YOU are the computer expert."

"Yeah, Avon," Vila said. "You should have sussed Orac was up to something. I mean, you could have expected him to want to take revenge for you placing that bomb in his circuits." Avon glared at him.

"Maybe we should get rid of Orac," Cally said.

"Or do some PROPER reprogramming," Jenna suggested.

"IF we ever get back to Liberator," Vila added.

"We will!" Blake hoped that sounded more convincing than he felt.

"Yes," Avon said. "It's the only way for Orac to learn that its experiment has succeeded." He didn't sound all that convinced either, Blake noticed.

"Right." Blake stifled his dismay. "First thing tomorrow we'll go back to the inn, to check how solid the alibi is of that ostler, Floris. If we can believe Sir Thomas, the state of the body rules out that the murder was committed later than noon, but that doesn't mean the corpse can't have been moved to the hut much later in the afternoon."

Jenna frowned in thought. "You mean, the murderer could've killed Anselm shortly after he'd set out, and hidden his body until he had time later to carry it to the hut."

Blake nodded. "If Anselm was still close to the inn, Floris could've been gone for just a short while, say no more than ten minutes."

"He'd have to be away for a much longer time later, though," Avon said. "The journey to the hut and back would take him the best part of the afternoon."

"Carrying a corpse along over such a distance would be heavy work," Cally remarked.

"Not if he took a horse with him," Blake said. "That would also have shortened his journey time."

"And Floris was in the best position to take a horse from the stables," Vila added.

"Yes," Blake said. Another piece falling into place. "He could have pretended the horse needed exercise."

"If Floris is the killer," Avon observed, "he must have known about the money. But, living above the stables, he had less opportunity to find out about that than someone living at the inn."

"Jack told us that Floris helped the monk down from his horse, when he arrived, didn't he?" Vila suddenly sounded excited. "He could have felt the money belt on him then."

"Of course," Blake exclaimed.

"Steady, Blake," Jenna warned. "This is all speculation. We mustn't rule out the others. We have only Sir Thomas's word that he didn't know about the money. Suppose Anselm told him?"

"Or told his brother," Cally suggested.

"Yeah," Vila said. "Richard's a clerk, that's some kind of clergyman. You remember that clerk in MANOR MAIDENS, Avon?"

"In that case, what's more natural than one clergyman confiding in another?" Cally asked. Blake saw her shiver. "Richard makes me uneasy."

"We have no more evidence against him than against Thomas," Jenna said. True, Blake thought. "And despite Avon's objections, we can't rule out Robert Cross-eye, the man who found the body."

"Not until we've established the hour he left town," Avon said. "I take it, Blake, you didn't think of asking Sir Thomas whether he's looked into that?"

"No, I didn't." Blake was stung by the veiled criticism. "And neither did you, I bet!"

"YOU are the one who's supposed to be leading the investigation." Avon smiled nastily. "Hardly an impressive performance!"

Blake was seized by the familiar longing to put his hands around Avon's neck and squeeze really hard. He waited until the feeling had subsided, then began to move to the door. "I'd better return to my lodgings." He could hear the reluctance in his own voice. He caught Avon casting Jenna a quick glance, a rare twinkle of impishness in his eyes.

"We could fit you in, Blake."

He was sorely tempted. But no, it probably wouldn't be considered seemly for a monk to share a bed with women. They couldn't afford to offend their hosts.


	4. Chapter 4

  
On her way back from the privy, Cally stopped to enjoy the morning air. The sun had just risen, the red sky heralding another fine autumn day. The path to the privy, situated at the bank of what must be a tributary to the river, ran between the manor's orchard and kitchen garden. Large patches of the garden were bare, its rich black soil dug up; others still held rows of cabbages.

"Cally."

She turned on hearing her name. Lidwyn was striding towards her, a bundle of textile draped over her arm. "Your clothes are nearly dry. I took them in last evening, to prevent them getting damp during the night. I'll spread them out again in the sun now. Come, I'll show you the place."

Sensing the woman wanted to get her away from inquisitive eyes and ears, Cally followed her to a row of sturdy bushes. Draping the clothes over them, Lidwyn began, "I shouldn't be saying this but I owe you, for saving Kathryn's life." She fell silent.

Cally waited, then said, "There's something you want to tell me?"

"Yes. Well, I know it's wrong, telling on one's master. But it's not about the master, really. And it might help your lord. I mean, the solving of the crime must have God's approval."

"You know something?" Cally chose her words with care, mindful not to frighten the woman off.

"Only what Lucy told me." Lidwyn grabbed Cally's arm. "But I don't want to cause her trouble."

"I will not implicate her nor you," Cally promised. "What did she tell you?"

"They say the holy Brother was murdered for the money he carried, so the murderer must have known about that money."

"That's our theory," Cally said, when the woman fell silent again.

Lidwyn nodded. "But the monk guarded his secret, so nobody knew about it." She dropped her voice. Cally had to strain to catch her words. "But somebody could have seen the money when he undressed. Because that room..."

Cally listened with rising satisfaction. So her feeling had been right! She forced herself to take the time to thank Lidwyn, then hurried back to the manor.

She found the others at breakfast. Blake was also present, munching on a piece of bread - he must have arrived while she was in the garden. Her first impulse was to confront the suspect there and then, but she resisted it. This society seemed to be rather male-dominated; an accusation by a woman might not be taken seriously, or could even be regarded as offensive. Better leave it to Blake. So she curbed her impatience, partaking in the breakfast as if nothing had happened. The bread was fresh and still warm, causing the butter to melt on it. In other circumstances Cally would have enjoyed it; now she was too excited to appreciate its taste.

//Blake, I know who the murderer is.// Catching his enquiring look, she added, //I'll tell you later, in our room.// She sent her message also to the others, finding herself rewarded with a raising of the eyebrows by Avon, a sceptical look from Jenna and a gaze of curiosity from Vila.

As soon as they were back in the guestroom, Cally burst out, "It's Richard! He knew about the money."

"Are you sure?" Blake asked.

"How do you know?" Vila enquired.

"I assume this is an example of Auron feeling?"

//Your sarcasm is uncalled for, Avon!//

"You've suspected him all along." Jenna's tone made clear she wasn't convinced.

//Why do you humans have to question everything?// Cally forced herself to keep calm. "The room in which Brother Anselm was staying has a secret peephole. The innkeeper lets Richard use it to spy on the occupants. Richard pays him for the privilege. Apparently he likes to peep at people undressing, and Jack tells him when the room is occupied."

"What?" Blake bellowed.

"Who told you this?" Avon's sarcasm was gone.

"Lidwyn. She has it from her sister Lucy, the one who works at the inn. Lucy once overheard them making an arrangement. But, Blake, I promised not to betray her."

Vila solemnly placed his hand on his heart. "I won't say a word."

"You mean, Cally," Jenna said, "that Richard must have spotted the money belt when he watched Anselm undress?"

She nodded. "That makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Right." Blake strode to the door and yanked it open. "Let's confront him and get his confession!"

Avon rushed forward. "Wait, Blake. It may not be what it seems."

Unheeding, Blake hurried out, followed by Jenna and Vila. Avon remained standing, hand raised. Cally hesitated, unsettled by Avon's reaction. "You think I'm wrong?"

"I think you and Blake are rushing to conclusions." Suddenly his face lit up in a boyish grin - a rare, genuine outbreak of mirth. "Come." Avon took her by the arm. "We don't want to miss Blake making a fool of himself."

Confused, Cally let him lead her through the house. They met several servants but Sir Thomas was nowhere to be seen, she noticed with vague relief. Avon headed straight for the small annexe at the back that, as she knew from the tour Thomas had given them on their arrival, served as Richard's room and office. Shouts of accusation and muffled protest greeted them from the open door. Cally stepped in, aware of Avon carefully closing the door. The room held a large bed and a small sloping desk that stood near the window. Blake had driven his prey against the wall and was leaning over him.

Looking pale under his tan, Richard squeaked, "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"You deny you were there?" Blake roared. "You deny paying Jack for letting you spy on his guests?"

"No, no," the clerk cried.

"Blake!" Avon stepped forward and took his arm.

"Let him talk, Blake," Jenna said.

//We must grant him the right to defend himself.//

To her relief Cally saw Blake calm down. He let go of Richard, who sank to the floor, his back still against the wall. "I'm listening," Blake growled.

"Yes," Richard gasped, "I do watch Jack's guests, sometimes. He tells me when he's got a couple who look as though they're going to be active." He rose, managing a dignified stance. "My vows prevent me from partaking in copulation; they do not forbid me to watch."

"Spare me your excuses," Blake snapped.

Richard scowled at him. "Why should I want to watch a dried out, celibate monk? Ask Jack, he only lets me know when he's got a couple in there - man and woman."

"Where were you on the morning of the murder?"

Richard turned his head, visibly surprised by Avon's question. "Here, until Jack came for me. I'd promised to help him organise the repair of the church roof. We made a round through the village, eliciting the help of every able-bodied man. Jack was late, he'd been delayed by that lazy ostler of his having drunk himself senseless. I told him that comes from employing an outsider. Foreigners always cause trouble!"

"You're not out of it yet," Blake warned.

"What Blake means," Avon said, "is that he accepts your statement - for now."

Richard looked from the open window to the closed door. "There's no need for my brother to know..."

"Not for the moment," Avon told him.

"But stop your game," Blake said. "Find a more decent way to get your kicks!" He pushed the door open and went out. Jenna and Vila hurried after him.

About to follow them, Cally waited when she heard Avon ask, "Who do you think did the murder?"

Richard hesitated. Cally tried to gauge his feelings, but she found herself unable to open her mind to him. "I've been thinking about that, lord. It's such a callous deed." Richard shook his head. "Yet we are all susceptible to temptation. Money brings out the worst in men. For that reason I wouldn't put it beyond anyone. But every villager is accounted for. I told you, we'd been through the village that very hour and they were all there. So it HAS to be the work of outlaws. My brother does a good job of keeping the woods free from them, but, well..." He shrugged.

"Quite," Avon said. Suddenly he brought his face close to Richard's. "If you want us to keep your secret, you won't breathe a word about us having stumbled upon that peephole! Not to Jack or anyone else. Understood?"

When the man nodded, he turned and left. Cally followed him back to the guestroom where they found the others waiting for them.

"Do we believe him?" Jenna asked.

"Yes," Avon said.

"For the moment," Blake added.

"Avon," Cally asked, "what made you doubt his guilt?"

"Logic. I couldn't imagine a voyeur wanting to waste time and money on goggling at a 'dried out celibate monk'." He mimicked Richard's words. "It would've been different if he'd expected the monk to sleep with one of the maids, but from all accounts it's clear that Anselm wasn't the man for that."

"You could be wrong there," Vila said. "Maybe Anselm was a debaucher." His face lit up. "Hey, that could be why he was murdered - because he's slept with someone's wife." Jenna rolled her eyes.

Something occurred to Cally. "Richard may not be the only one using the peephole. If the innkeeper is prepared to take Richard's money for the privilege, he'll probably take anyone's."

"In that case that peephole should be common knowledge," Avon reasoned.

"It isn't," Cally said. "Lidwyn says it's well hidden. Lucy isn't supposed to know, that's why her sister was so reluctant to tell me. Lucy only got wind of it when she overheard Jack and Richard talk about it, quite by chance. Her master won't be pleased if he finds out that she knows, or that she told her sister. That's why we have to keep them out of it."

"We will," Blake said, then hissed, "No peephole!"

"What?" Cally asked, startled.

"That was what Jack said when we viewed Anselm's room," Avon explained. "We'd closed the shutters to see how well they fitted."

"And Jack told us there was no peephole in them," Vila said. "While he was leaning against the one in the wall!"

Blake squared his shoulders. "Right, time for a serious talk with Master Jack."

"No, Blake." Avon moved to the door, blocking his way.

"He can tell us who's been spying on Anselm," Blake said.

"And you think he will? No, Blake, that peephole is the only clue we've gained. It may be to our advantage to keep that knowledge to ourselves for the moment."

"Avon has a point," Jenna said. "Better not let on that we've found out about it."

Vila nodded. "If the murderer gets to hear we've been tackling Jack about it, he'll know that we know, while we don't want him to know that we know, because if he doesn't know that we know, he won't get alarmed, if you know what I mean."

"Crystal clear as usual." Avon gave Blake a challenging stare. "Well?"

"All right, we'll leave it for the moment. But I WILL go to the inn. We still have to establish whether that ostler, Floris, could have sneaked away. And I have some additional questions for Robert Cross-eye."

"We'll come with you," Jenna said.

"No, Jenna." Blake's tone was final. "Here, women are not supposed to participate in a murder enquiry."

"But -"

"You and Cally stay here!"

Cally could share Jenna's outrage. "What a stupid rule, to leave half the population's potential unused!"

"That's something to say for the Federation," Jenna said. "They do give women an equal chance."

Vila grinned. "And they don't allow discrimination. Do you remember the case of that Space Captain who refused to serve under a woman? They kicked him out fast, demoted him to the construction grades."

"I think I heard about that case," Jenna said. "He later pretended he'd actually asked for a transfer to the construction grades. Didn't he try to set up a campaign against the use of computers?"

"MAN VERSUS MACHINES," Avon quoted. "A rather childish concept. But I'm afraid that for once Blake's right. Here, an investigation like this is seen as men's work."

Cally did not intend to accept a passive role. //Jenna, when they've gone we can do our own investigation.// She caught Jenna's brief nod.

"Come on, Avon, Vila," Blake said briskly. "Let's go stir up things at the inn, and see what emerges."

* * *

At Blake's side, Avon walked to the inn with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it would be amusing to see Blake blunder. On the other, it might hinder the investigation...

"Avon." His thoughts disturbed, he turned his head.

"Yes, Vila."

"I've been thinking."

"Really?"

"While you two are doing the third degree on Floris and Robert, why don't I go and try to get some more information from the other servants?"

He could see through Vila as easily as through a transparent data sheet. "Those servants being the barmaids, presumably."

"You can learn a lot from listening to a barmaid."

"Not to go by your example."

"It's out of the question, Vila," Blake said over his shoulder.

About to refuse, Avon changed his mind. This opportunity to annoy Blake was too good to waste. "All right, Vila. But keep your hands in your own pockets! Thieves are hanged here." With satisfaction he saw Vila blanch.

"No, Avon," Blake protested.

"Vila isn't likely to be of any help with our interrogations. He may as well make himself useful elsewhere, Blake, and not be in our way."

"Better have him where we can keep an eye on him!"

"He is MY servant." Seeing Vila bristle, Avon gave him a mocking smile. He was beginning to enjoy this. He brought his face close to the thief's. "I mean it, Vila! If you're caught stealing, I won't do anything to save you!"

"Yes, yes, Avon. No stealing. I promise." Vila made a dash for the inn.

Blake visibly shook off his annoyance. "There's Cross-eye." He pointed at a man in grey hose and tunic, who was diligently digging up a strip of land behind the orchard. The soil he turned looked dark and heavy. "Let's tackle him first."

Robert looked up from his work at their arrival. He was a tall, well-built man with short-cropped brown hair. His grey eyes were indeed crossed, Avon noticed, making it difficult to guess the direction of his gaze.

"You're back, Brother," Robert commented, by all appearances to Avon. "And milord, this is an honour." Now it seemed he was addressing Blake.

"I have some more questions for you, Robert," Blake said. "At what time did you leave the fair?"

"At mid-morning." Robert leaned on his spade.

"You have witnesses who can confirm that?"

"Yes, my sister."

"Who'll be happy to lie for you, no doubt."

Robert looked surprised. "Why should she have to do that, Brother?"

"Because you didn't leave around mid-morning! You left early and made haste. At noon you ran into Brother Anselm. You murdered him, stole his money and took his corpse to the hut. There you waited until the evening, when you went to sound the alarm, pretending you'd just found the body." Blake could sound like a real bastard when he wanted to, Avon reflected. And right now he was in top form.

Robert had gone pale. "At NOON?"

"Yes, Robert. Anselm would just have made it to the hut at that time."

"You're insane, Brother!" Robert yelled. "These are lies!"

"YOUR lies!"

"NO, it was like I told you! Milord!" Eyes rolling wildly, Robert turned his face to Avon, his gaze seemingly directed at a point behind Avon's left ear. "You must believe me!"

Avon began to feel almost sorry for the man. "It's Brother Blake you'll have to convince, Robert. And you'll find that a hard task, once he's made up his mind."

"I am innocent!" Robert lifted his spade and threw it down at Blake's feet. "I'm a man of honour. I do not kill by stealth. Ask anyone here. Ask my brother-in-law!"

He strode away. They hurried after him. He went straight for the stables.

"Well now," Avon mused, perceiving a familiar figure. In the yard Richard Pennant stood agitatedly talking to Jack. Nearer to the entrance, Floris and a tall man in a black gown were in earnest conversation over the back of a horse that was being groomed by the boy, Aelwin. Avon recognised the man as Father Edmund, the village priest. Aelwin held his eyes on his task, apparently undisturbed by the commotion around him.

"Jack," Robert shouted. "Jack, you can vouch for me! Father Edmund, you know I'm a man of good name and fame." Having caught their attention, he solemnly raised his right hand. "I swear I'm innocent of this foul deed of which I am accused. The monk was dead when I found him. I had no hand in his death."

The priest stepped forward. "God knows the pureness of your heart, my son. MEN need to know too."

Robert's eyes roved over his audience. "I cannot let this false accusation stand. I will not let myself be hanged for another man's deed."

"Do you mean that the gentlemen think YOU killed the monk?" Jack eyed Avon and Blake incredulously, then spread his arms in a dramatic gesture. "Lord, Brother, this must be a misunderstanding. I know my brother-in-law. He is an honest man. Had I not been convinced of that, I would not have let him marry my sister."

Time for appeasement, Avon decided. Whether Robert was the killer or not, clearly they weren't going to get a confession out of him here and now. "Brother Blake was only posing a question. He is content with your answer..."

"Like HELL I am!" Blake muttered.

"And will not be bothering you again," Avon continued smoothly. It wouldn't do any harm to let Cross-eye think he was no longer under suspicion.

"It is a grave sin," the priest remarked, "to make a false accusation."

"As I said, a regrettable misunderstanding." Avon flashed him a soothing smile. "What do YOU make of the crime?"

The priest crossed himself. "We should leave such matters to God."

"God needs help from men," Blake said. "The victim was a man of god, like you, Edmund. That should give you all the more reason to want the crime solved."

"All the more reason to leave it to God." The priest shivered. "The sinner's soul will burn in Hell for eternity. Compared to that, what punishment can men inflict?"

"Quite." Avon placed a hand on Blake's shoulder. The last thing they needed was to get embroiled in a religious debate. "Have you finished?"

"Not yet." Blake turned his back to the priest.

Releasing him, Avon followed his gaze, becoming aware that their audience had thinned. Robert was still standing defiantly, arms crossed. Floris had disappeared. Jack and Richard were leaving the scene, heading for the main building. Aelwin was tending to the horse as if the commotion had passed him by. Could he really be so insensitive to his surroundings? Avon wondered. Even if Aelwin could not hear the sounds, he should be able to catch the vibrations of angry steps, the air displacement brought on by movement. The loss of one sense was supposed to sharpen the others. And was the boy really a half-wit, or just pretending to be one because it made for an easy life? Avon knew of another such one. He saw Blake hurry to catch up with the innkeeper.

"Jack!" Jack halted. Richard hesitated, then pursued his way, disappearing round the corner of the inn. "One more thing, Jack," Blake said. "Where was Floris during the afternoon of the murder? You told me you roused him, after Brother Anselm had left?"

"Yes, Brother. I poured a pail of water over his head. Told him to go do his duty and feed the horses."

"Did you see him at any time, that afternoon?"

"Yes. Well, I didn't see much of him. Tell the truth, I thought he'd gone to lie down in the first hole he came to, to sleep off his hangover."

"Could he have been away for long enough to carry the corpse to the hut?"

Jack stared at Blake. "You think FLORIS did it? No, I can't believe that. He'd have done a runner. Did you know he was convicted for manslaughter in his homeland?"

"Did he," Blake insisted, "or did he not have the opportunity?"

"I suppose he did." It came out very reluctantly. "If he'd taken a horse. Aelwin would have seen him, though."

"But Aelwin is unable to tell us." Perhaps they should let Cally try to communicate with the boy, Avon thought. But no, the risk of her being accused of witchcraft was too great.

"I don't believe it," Jack said. "Well, I'll try and find out if any of the others saw him during the afternoon."

Blake chewed his lip in thought. "Maybe we should try another angle, Avon. We'll ask Sir Thomas to show us the hut." He dismissed the innkeeper with a gesture and began to walk to the path leading to the manor. "We may find a clue there."

"After all this time?" Avon fell in step beside him. "Rather a cold trail."

"Maybe we'll be lucky."

"I doubt it. Besides, Thomas must have searched the place for clues. He doesn't strike me as a man to miss much."

"Yet it appears he managed to overlook the fact that both Robert and Floris did not have an alibi. And he either failed to notice his brother's unsavoury pastime, or he connives."

"I imagine that Richard is guarding his secret very closely."

"His voyeurism speaks against him," Blake said. "But we can't ignore his alibi. So it seems to be between the two without one, Floris and Robert."

Avon stifled a yawn. He'd not slept all that well, due to Vila's snoring. "And which of them has the honour of being on top of your list?" He caught Blake's annoyed glance.

"I don't know. They both had the opportunity."

"But since he can't have known about the money Anselm was carrying, Robert hasn't got much of a motive," Avon reasoned aloud. "By all accounts the monk had the appearance of a pauper, and why would a respectable and prosperous man perform a wanton killing?"

"As Vila suggested, Floris could've known about the money belt, if he'd felt it while helping Anselm from his horse," Blake said. "But it does seem unlikely he'd stay around for the body to be found."

Avon nodded. "Especially as he could've buried the body, delaying its discovery. He could've been out of the country before his victim was reported missing. Why should HE care if Anselm's disappearance brought the village under suspicion? No Blake, we're looking for someone with a vested interest in the village. Someone reluctant to leave his home-ground, even with a fortune to smooth his path."

"So you'd put Robert on top of the list?" Blake asked.

"Perhaps." Avon was beginning to feel frustrated. "I have the feeling we're missing something."

"We're certainly not making much progress," Blake conceded. "We need either more data or a new development."

Avon clutched at the only straw he could see. "It's just possible your stirring up of things here scared the murderer. A scared man's bound to make mistakes. If he panics, he may do something stupid that'll give us a lead."

* * *

With bouncing steps Vila made for the door to the taproom. Outside, on a bench in the sun, an old woman sat sewing. That must be Old Ethel, Jack's mother, Vila reflected, taking in her regal bearing. Giving her a slight bow in passing, he went inside. The room was empty. "Anybody there?" Vila called, disappointed. When he didn't get any reply, he made for the inner door and stepped into the kitchen. Like the taproom, it had a fireplace in the centre. This one was lit, its smoke escaping through a hole in the roof. Above the fire hung a cauldron. A woman was stirring its contents with a large ladle. She wore a dark green dress and a white headscarf. From where Vila stood, only half of her face was visible, showing a straight nose and small chin. A thick blond braid, emerging from under her headdress, hung on her back. She turned her face to him and Vila got a shock. From cheek to chin the skin of the right side of her face was red and ugly scarred, the lips partly missing, showing yellow teeth. "I'm s- sorry," he stuttered, aware that she'd noticed his shock.

"No need." She smiled at him with her good side, the ruined part of her mouth not participating. It was a grotesque sight. "You must be the lord's valet."

"That's right." He regained the control of his tongue. "My name's Vila."

"I'm Ann Robertwife, Jack's sister." She gestured at a stool. "Sit down and let me get you something. Would you like a bowl of this broth, it's just about ready."

"Yes, please." He'd have preferred a cup of wine but it seemed impolite to refuse. "It smells good." It did, making him aware of a vague sense of hunger. At breakfast he'd managed only a morsel of the dark, coarse bread, expecting it to upset his delicate stomach. She took two bowls from a stack on a table, put them on the flat stones that bordered the hearth, and ladled the soup into them.

"You look pale," she observed. "All you Welsh do. I'll add a dose of red wine to the broth, to bring some colour to your cheeks."

"Yeah, good idea," Vila said, watching her take a bottle from a tall rack. Apparently being a lord's valet had its advantages.

She poured a generous measure into both bowls. "Always good for the complexion, red wine." She handed a bowl to Vila. "There."

"Thanks." He took a tentative sip. The broth was hot and tasty. "Wow, this is good."

She looked pleased. "Wine does give that little bit extra to cooking. It's expensive, of course, having to be brought in from over the sea. But Jack can afford it." She grinned in a conspiring manner. "I tell him it's for medical purposes."

"The place looks prosperous," Vila commented. In reality he found it excruciatingly primitive, but compared to what he'd heard about Blake's lodgings, this place must be the height of luxury. "How'd you get those scars?" he asked boldly.

She didn't seem upset by the question. "I fell into the hearth when I was a small child. I don't remember much of it, just the pain. They said I'd just begun to walk, and lost my footing. They didn't expect me to live, and when I did they said God must have a special purpose for me. I wondered whether He expected me to take the veil, but then Father Winfrid had an inspiration."

"Father Winfrid?"

"Our village priest, the one before Edmund. He said Robert and I should wed, as for what other purpose could God have brought two flawed youngsters into one village? He was a wise man, Father Winfrid." She smiled again. Vila found himself no longer repulsed by her appearance. There was a liveliness in her eyes that made you - well, not fail to notice her scars, but cease to take notice of them. "And he was right, it WAS God's will," she continued. "For He gave us a son. So in gratitude we gave our son to God."

Did she mean SACRIFICE? For a moment Vila recalled the stark altar slab in Vargas's temple. Then he heard her say, "...in the abbey."

"You mean you gave him to a cloister, to become a monk?"

She nodded proudly. "As soon as he was weaned."

It seemed hardly less cruel than killing him. "But what if he doesn't want to be a monk?"

She looked uncomprehending. "How can he object against God's will? And God approved, for He gave us another son. Winfrid is a good boy, and will be a support for us in our old age. He's but ten but already he's a hard worker, helping me in the kitchen and his father in the fields."

"Winfrid?"

"We named him after Father Winfrid - in his memory as God had taken our good Father home by then, and we'd got that fornicator Edmund in his place." Clearly she considered the residing priest but a poor substitute for his saintly predecessor. "I know we should respect our clergy, and they say the celibate is only for those within the cloister, but I'm sure Father Winfrid never touched a woman or had an impure thought in his life. A priest should not have a family! The murdered monk thought so too."

"What?" Vila nearly choked on the last swig of his broth. "How do you know?"

"From my son. Edmund's boy's his best friend." Her voice took on a slightly defensive edge. "We should not blame the father's sins on the children."

"Of course not," Vila agreed encouragingly.

"So, my Winfrid went to play with his friend and walked straight into a terrible row! The holy Brother was taking Edmund to task for his immoral life, and Edmund was telling him to keep out of his affairs."

"When was this?" Vila asked, breathless.

"On the day of the Feast, after noon. The Brother was saying he'd agreed to sing mass with Edmund in good faith, and if he'd known about his sinful life, he'd have refused. Edmund argued he wasn't a monk, but the Brother said that didn't matter, he was still committing a sin. Edward told him to mind his own business. The monk said it WAS his business, as by singing mass with a sinner, he was now tainted by sin himself. Then Edmund started to shout that he should shut up, or he would MAKE him shut up."

* * *

"Right," Jenna said, as soon as the men had departed for the inn. She felt restless, and in need of action. "Where shall we start?"

"Why not with Kathryn's grandmother?" Cally suggested. "We can pay a visit to ask after the girl's health. I can't imagine anyone objecting to that."

"Good idea," Jenna said. "As midwife, the woman must know all the village gossip."

Cally nodded. "We must try to get her opinion about the murder."

"Better not hold too high hopes there." Jenna remembered Beatrice's assessment. "The woman seems to dwell in visions. Hysterical, Beatrice called her."

"Well, let's find out for ourselves." Cally addressed a maid who came from the garden, carrying a heavy basket. "Can you tell us the way to Agnes's house?" The maid put down her basket. It was filled with vegetables, Jenna saw. Probably for the evening meal.

"You follow the road." The maid pointed at the narrow path meandering through the village. "Just keep heading West. It's the last house of the village."

"Thank you," Cally said.

"That doesn't sound too difficult," Jenna observed.

It wasn't. Although no more than a trail, the path was easy to follow. They walked along gardens, fields and the occasional dwelling. Lazy fluffs of smoke escaped from the holes in the thatched roofs and were carried away by the wind. Every house they passed had its door wide open, to allow the daylight in, Jenna presumed. Burglary must be non-existent here. But then, there wasn't much to steal anyway. Besides, stealing from one's neighbour must be unpractical, especially if you have nowhere to hide the loot.

"That must be the house," Cally said.

Woken from her reverie, Jenna looked. The house was small, its thatched roof reaching almost to the ground. The kitchen garden looked neat, the rows of vegetables well weeded. In the meadow beyond, a goat stood tethered to a pole. Stretching its long leash to the limit, it tried to nibble at the grass just out of its reach, ignoring the equally green patch it stood on.

At the roadside, Kathryn sat on a fallen tree-trunk, staring into the distance. She turned on hearing their approach. "Hello," Cally said, sitting down at her side. "We came to see how you are."

"I'm fine, God bless, good Lady." She made the familiar sign. A cross, Jenna thought, recalling vague stories about Earth's long lost religions. She'd heard it whispered that some were still practised, in deep secret. Even the Federation, with its ruthless methods, had not managed to stamp out all exponents of superstition.

"We'd like to speak to your grandmother," Cally went on. "Is she in?" Cally seemed to have a knack for interacting with children. Better leave the talking to her, Jenna decided. She had never been interested in kids, and was aware she lacked Cally's easy-going way with them.

"Grandmother's gone to attend to Gundred," Kathryn replied. "Arnulf came to fetch her in the night."

"And you're waiting for her return?" Cally asked.

"No, Lady. Grandmother won't be back for hours yet. It's Gundred's first - it can take days with the first child." She shook her head emphatically. "No, I'm waiting for the horsemen of the apocalypse. I want to be the first to see them. Grandmother says it won't be long now. The resurrection of the dead is imminent, for she has seen the sign."

"The sign?" Cally asked encouragingly.

The girl nodded. "Time repeating itself. It's a sure sign that the end is near."

Religious gobbledegook, Jenna thought, irritated. Beatrice was right, the midwife was a hysterical scaremonger. For a moment she considered telling the girl life on Earth would go on for at least another two thousand years or so. Better keep quiet, though. She wouldn't be believed anyway.

"Have you heard about the murder of the Brother who came to the inn?" Cally asked.

Kathryn nodded so hard it made her dark braids bounce on her shoulders. "We saw him ride by on the day he left. He was all dressed up in his habit, with his cowl deep over his head. And it was such a fine day. But maybe he can't bear the sun on his skin, like Old Hildred. The merest sunshine brings her out in a terrible rash." She lowered her voice. "Or maybe it was his shadow we saw, following him."

Jenna caught Cally's glance. It looked like little Kathryn was already thoroughly set on following her grandmother's example. "At what time was this?" Cally asked.

Now Kathryn became vague. Apparently time was but a relative conception for the girl. It had been sometime in the morning, she'd been helping Grandmother to shell beans... Suddenly her face lit up. "I was beginning to feel hungry. So it must have been late in the morning, mustn't it?"

"Yes," Cally said. Which meant that Anselm had been still alive at that point, Jenna reflected. Kathryn and her grandmother must have been the last persons to see him alive, apart from his murderer. "This seems a very quiet village," Cally observed. "Do you have many strangers visiting?"

"Not so many," the girl replied. "Most travellers pass by in haste. Only the slow ones stop here to stay the night."

Which meant that probably not enough travellers would pass for the girl to get one monk confused with another, Jenna deduced. Clearly Cally was thinking of all the right questions to ask. It seemed unlikely that the girl could tell them anything further, though. Jenna was about to suggest they return later to see the grandmother, when Cally began to ask the girl about her friends.

"I play a lot with Bridget and her sister. They're Father Edmund's daughters. Bridget is my best friend." Suddenly the girl's large dark eyes began to shine with defiance. "I'm glad I don't have a father, to beat me when the mood befalls him."

"You mean Edmund beats his children?" Jenna exclaimed.

The girl looked her way, clearly startled by her sudden outburst. "And his wife, lady. Everybody knows it."

"And nobody stops him?" Cally asked. "This is horrible."

Kathryn shrugged. "Grandmother says he has a vi-o-lent," she stumbled slightly over the word, "temper. And Bridget says he's always sorry later, and does penance in church. But that can't undo the pain and bruises, can it?"

* * *

Vila had thought it prudent to return independently to the manor, thus avoiding Avon's boot. The fact that he was still sober this time might not prevent 'Lord Avon' from demonstrating his authority over his so-called valet the hard way. Not seeing the use of staying out in the fresh air any longer than necessary, Vila went straight to the guestroom. Finding it empty, he lay down on the bed for a quick nap. He was rudely woken from a delicious dream by a kick in his ribs. "Ouch!" The image of a harem of virgins dressed in red fur dissolved, to be replaced by one of Jenna retracting her boot.

"Why must you always fall asleep, Vila?" Cally chided.

"Because he's bone idle!"

"I don't see what's wrong with being idle!" Glaring at Jenna, Vila sat up. "Anyway, I've NOT been idle. I've discovered an important fact. Which I bet is more than you did."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jenna said.

"All right." Vila crossed his arms, hurt by her tone. "If you don't want to hear it..."

"What fact?" Cally asked.

"You could try to take me seriously, just for once!"

"Out with it, Vila!" Jenna growled.

Just for a moment he considered resisting, but it wasn't worth the effort. "On the day before his death, our holy monk had a mighty row with the village priest about Edmund's immoral lifestyle. It ended with Edmund telling Anselm to shut up, or HE'D MAKE HIM SHUT UP!"

"What?" Jenna asked.

"This IS interesting," Cally said. A warm glow of satisfaction rose in Vila. It was nice to be taken seriously for a change.

He saw Jenna exchange a glance with Cally. "Edmund has a violent temper," she said.

"But he didn't kill Anselm then," Cally observed.

"Suppose they met the next day, and the row flared up again?" Jenna said. "It fits, Cally. A priest can't run. His only option would be to lead the search away from the village."

Vila nodded. "No-one suspects a priest."

"WE certainly didn't," Jenna conceded.

"Nor Blake and Avon, I bet," Vila said with glee.

As if on cue the two men entered.

"You're all looking inordinately smug," Avon remarked, eyeing them coldly.

"Look who's talking," Jenna snapped.

"That's because we've solved the crime," Vila said. "Thanks to the information I gathered."

"Again, Vila?" Avon's smile was nasty. "You're showing an unusual amount of diligence. Is it the change of scenery? The influence of the fresh air?"

"Avon, Vila may be right this time," Cally said.

"However improbable that sounds," Jenna added.

Vila scowled at her. "Oh, thanks a lot!"

"All right, let's hear it," Blake said.

Vila related his tale, supported by the women.

"This proves nothing," Avon said when they'd finished. "The only information you have is that Edmund quarrelled with the victim. And even that is hearsay."

"He doesn't have an alibi, does he?" Vila challenged.

Blake frowned in thought. "He hasn't been named as one of the people Jack spoke to."

"So," Jenna said, "we must find out if he HAS an alibi."

"Jenna and I can do that," Cally suggested. "We can go and talk with his children. Steer the conversation round to Edmund's whereabouts."

"No," Blake said.

"Yes," Avon countered. "An excellent idea, Cally. You can do it this afternoon, while we go to view the scene of the crime."

Blake turned to Avon. "I prefer to talk to Edmund myself."

"Rushing in with accusations in your usual subtle manner, no doubt. For logic's sake, Blake! We can't afford another unsubstantiated accusation - remember the reaction to your first one."

That sounded interesting, Vila thought. "Did I miss something?"

"Blake stirred things up all right," Avon said. "He accused Robert Cross-eye of the murder and got his wrist slapped for it by the priest."

"And that could point to Edmund being the murderer," Blake snapped. "He may feel uneasy about someone else being made to carry the can for his deed."

"Possibly," Avon replied. "Still, we need to tread carefully here. If you go accusing Edmund and it turns out that he does have an alibi, you'll have needlessly antagonised him and all the villagers as well."

"Avon's right, Blake," Jenna said. "Better find out first if he has an alibi."

"He won't run away," Cally added. The protagonists locked gazes. Vila breathlessly followed the silent battle of wills. Normally his money would be on Blake, but away from Liberator Avon seemed more prepared to stand up to him.

"All right," Blake growled at last. "I suppose it can't do any harm. See to it, Cally."

Amused, Vila saw Jenna bristle at being ignored. Blake would never learn! It was astounding that a man sometimes so adept at handling people, could be so blind to the blatantly obvious.

"Are you going to report your work of this morning to us, Blake?" Jenna's voice was icy. "Or are we to be kept in the dark?"

"Of course not." Blake gave an account of his talk with Robert Cross-eye.

"Not exactly a fruitful morning," Avon commented when he'd finished.

"We'll make up for that in the afternoon, Avon. I've arranged for Thomas to show us the scene of the crime." Blake moved to the door. "He suggested an early lunch first. Let's see if that's ready yet."

It was. Vila decided to forgo the bread, taking a chunk of cheese instead. One detail he remembered from the MANOR MAIDENS show was that you were not supposed to put one dairy product on another. So you could put either butter on your bread, or cheese, but not both. The historical advisors seemed to have got that one right, as he didn't see the two being combined here.

All too soon Thomas rose. "My brother and I will escort you," he told Avon and Blake.

Rising reluctantly, Vila began to wonder whether he could wriggle out of the journey - trudging through woods wasn't among his five hundred favourite things to do. "Avon," he began while they followed Sir Thomas out.

"No, Vila. You're coming with me."

"But," he insisted, irritated about Avon guessing his proposal, "I'm needed here - to look after the women. We can't leave them unprotected."

"They're more able to look after themselves then you are."

"Now, that's not fair..."

"Shut up, Vila!"

He opened his mouth for a further protest, but desisted when he saw where Thomas was leading them. The manor's stables. Ostlers were holding horses ready.

Blake halted abruptly. "I thought we'd walk."

"We'll be quicker riding," Thomas said.

"I think Brother Blake means he isn't a good rider," Avon remarked smoothly.

"I've anticipated that, Lord. The Brother doesn't have the walk of a horseman. I've had Daisy saddled up for him." Thomas smiled encouragingly at Blake. "She's a sedate mare, Brother. She'll give you no trouble. Help the Brother up, Peter."

Vila watched as, helped by a stable boy, Blake inelegantly hoisted himself into the saddle. Was it his imagination, or had Blake paled a bit? It was difficult to see - Ann had been right, compared to the ruddy colouring of the villagers they all looked pale. He waited, vaguely wondering what pretext Avon would come up with to refuse the offered horse. But Avon calmly took the rein, put his foot into the stirrup and slung his leg gracefully over the saddle. Then he bent down to adjust his stirrup leathers. He seemed utterly comfortable in the saddle. Just like him, Vila thought, to know how to ride a damn horse! His chagrin turning to consternation, he heard Avon say, "You can ride behind me, Vila."

"WHAT? You can't mean that!"

"Help him up, someone," Avon said. Vila felt strong hands lifting him and the next moment found himself on the horse's back. Terrified, he put his hands around Avon's waist and clung to him tightly. Laughter rose from the onlookers.

"Not much of a horseman is he, Lord?" someone asked. Vila clenched his teeth; one day he'd get Avon for this!

"Where did you learn to ride a horse?" he asked softly while Thomas, Richard and two archers mounted.

"When I was a child, my mother took me with her on a number of re-enactment projects she was allowed to take part in."

"Must have been privileged, your mum."

"She was."

Avon fell silent when Thomas shouted an order and they set off. Thomas took the lead, then Avon, Blake, Richard and the two archers at the rear. The journey was gruelling; Vila hung on for dear life.

When at last they halted, he was not only exhausted from clinging on to Avon, but his buttocks felt as though they were bruised to pulp. "Oh..." Moaning softly, he slid from the horse. Massaging his stiff muscles, he could find little comfort in the fact that Blake looked equally miserable. Even the sight of Avon wincing after dismounting and surreptitiously massaging his back failed to cheer him up.

Preoccupied with the thought that they still had the return journey to face, he took in the low hut - overshadowed by large trees - without really noticing. Leaving it to the archers to tether the horses, Thomas walked briskly to the hut. He pushed open the door, then stepped aside to let his guests enter. Blake stepped in first, then Avon. Feeling claustrophobic underneath the tall trees, Vila hurried after them. The only light coming from the open door, he seemed to step into darkness. Then his eyes began to adjust and he could see his companions.

"What?" Blake hissed, stopping abruptly.

Avon stepped aside to avoid bumping into him, leaving a gap for Vila. In horror he took in the body hanging from the central beam of the hut, its feet only just above the floor. It was dressed in a dark habit. Despite the feeble light the body's face was clearly discernible, its tongue protruding from the mouth. Even in death the bulging eyes were staring at different angles.

"Robert Cross-eye," Blake breathed.

"Evidently," Avon commented. With cold amusement he saw a gagging Vila turn and flee from the hut.

Thomas and Richard entered. In unison they crossed themselves. "It looks as though he hanged himself," Thomas observed. "In his victim's habit."

Richard shook his head sadly. "The wretched soul."

"A sign of remorse," Blake said.

Avon gave him an irritated stare; how typical of Blake to go for the obvious! "Why not examine him before drawing conclusions?"

"I said it LOOKS as though he hanged himself," Thomas said.

Avon gave him a brief smile, glad that his impression of the man hadn't been wrong. "Yes, it is a bit obvious, isn't it?"

"The obvious solution is often the right one," Blake mumbled, but Avon could hear doubt entering his voice.

Thomas bent to pick up a block of wood that was lying on its side against the back wall. "Hold him, while I cut him loose." He placed the block, right side up, on the floor behind the body, climbed onto it and drew his knife. While Avon and Blake supported the body, he cut through the noose's fibres.

"That must be the cord of the habit," Richard said. Thomas nodded.

"Let's take him outside," Avon suggested, stumbling under the body's weight. "We can examine him in the light."

Outside they found Vila leaning against a tree, looking wan. His eyes followed them lowering the corpse onto the layer of ferns, moss and rotting leaves. Vila's shock must be giving way to curiosity, Avon mused. They knelt down round the corpse, Avon, Blake and Thomas at the head and Richard at its feet. While Richard began to mumble a prayer, Avon tried to undo the knot of the cord. The weight of the body had pulled it tight and he had to borrow Thomas's knife to cut it loose. The cord came away from the neck without resistance. A narrow weal ran round the neck, the flesh deeply cut and bloodied. Thomas whistled, then hastily crossed himself as if to make up for his frivolity.

"Yes," Avon translated his reaction, "this wound can't have been caused by that thick cord."

"So Robert was murdered," Blake said.

"Well, he can hardly have hanged himself on that cord if he was already dead." Avon handed the knife back to Thomas.

"You mean," Vila said, joining them, "someone else killed him, then dressed his body in the habit so it would appear he was the monk's killer overcome by remorse, and strung him up to make it look like suicide?"

"Your capacity for stating the obvious is unsurpassed, Vila."

Thomas gently ran a finger over the weal. "This looks the same as the wound on Brother Anselm - caused by a thin but very strong line."

"The same killer," Avon said.

"He must've kept the habit for this occasion," Blake remarked.

Avon nodded. Cally's feeling had been right - the absence of the habit had been significant. "The blood has clotted, but the body's still warm." He tried to remember what he'd read about the correlation between the cooling of a body and the time of death.

"He can't have been dead long," Thomas affirmed. "I'd say an hour at the most."

"Shouldn't we have passed the murderer on his way back to the village?" Vila asked.

"He'd have the sense to avoid us," Thomas said. "Our approach must have been audible from afar. All he needed to do was leave the road and take a detour through the wood."

"Or hide behind a thick tree until we were past," Blake added.

Avon began to feel a cold satisfaction; maybe this would prove to be the breakthrough they needed. "This must've been a rushed job. Our murderer is beginning to panic."

Blake snapped his fingers. "Remember Avon, this morning, when Robert said he wasn't going to take the blame for someone else's crime. He might've been addressing the murderer."

"Yes." Avon had worked that out already. "Regrettably, it wasn't clear who he was speaking to."

"Floris," Blake said. "He was looking at Floris."

Avon produced a disdainful smile. "Which is a great pointer to Floris not being the person addressed. With those eyes there's no saying who Robert was looking at."

"You mean Robert was suggesting he knew who the murderer was?" The Under-Sheriff's tone betrayed his irritation at being kept in the dark.

"No, Sir Thomas," Avon said quickly before Blake could say something to make matters worse. "He called on the others to affirm his good name, after Brother Blake had suggested that he might have lied about the time he left the Fair -"

"Do you think I didn't check that?" Thomas erupted. His eyes flared at Blake. "I went personally to Town, spoke with Robert's sister AND the men he took a farewell drink with before setting out. Unless five honourable men have been lying, there's no way he could have met with Brother Anselm in time to kill him."

"Well now, Brother Blake," Avon couldn't resist observing, "didn't I advise you to consult the Under-Sheriff first?"

"The HELL you did!" Blake hissed.

"Am I allowed to know," Thomas asked acidly, "who were those persons Robert called upon to affirm his good name?"

"Your brother can tell you," Blake said. "He was there."

"That's right." Richard didn't seem all that happy about being dragged into the limelight. "I'd gone to see Jack. Suddenly Robert came striding upon us, shouting that his name was being maligned. He called upon us all to affirm his good name."

"And who were 'us all'?"

"Floris was there, and that deaf fellow. And Father Edmund."

"Right." Thomas turned to his archers. "You two, take the body home and pick up Floris. Richard, you go ahead to break the news to Robert's wife and brother."

Wondering whether he should countermand the order to pick up Floris, Avon hardly took in the rest of Thomas's instructions. Better not interfere, he decided. The Under-Sheriff didn't strike him as the type to beat a confession out of an innocent man. In the circumstances, under lock and key might be the safest place for Floris to be right now. Now why did his instinct persist that Floris was innocent? Avon frowned; he was missing something - a fact so obvious it was staring him in the face, yet he couldn't grasp it.

"Meanwhile we'll do a thorough search of this place," continued Thomas.

Taking the lead with aplomb, Blake strode to the hut. Avon followed him more slowly. Inside, he surveyed the hut's interior. The poor light was enough to show him the search wouldn't take long. Apart from three blocks of wood and a heap of hay in a corner, the place was empty. He estimated the hut to be about four by two metres. The four of them made it look crowded. It must have been built merely to serve as a shelter in bad weather.

"Nothing much to search, is there?" Vila said, kicking the hay. "What's that?" Something rolled from the hay. Vila bent to pick it up. Triumphantly he showed the object on the palm of his hand. It was a coin.

"A silver mark," Thomas exclaimed, taking the coin.

"Fool's luck," Avon muttered.

"This must be part of the sum Anselm was carrying," Blake said.

"Without a doubt," Thomas confirmed. "It's not a currency one often comes across in these parts."

"You mean the loot was hidden here?" Vila asked.

"Not necessarily." Avon did some quick thinking. "It seems more likely the murderer brought it here as bait for his second victim."

"He must've made an appointment with Robert here," Thomas said. "Offering to share the money with him."

"He'd put the coins on the floor?"

Avon could visualise the scene. "And when Robert knelt down to count them, the murderer came up behind him, throwing the line around his neck. Then it was just a matter of pulling hard."

"The line would've cut into his throat, choking him, before he'd have time to react," Thomas agreed. "That way, even a small man could've felled an ox like Robert."

"Careless of him to leave that coin behind," Vila observed.

"It probably rolled out of sight during the struggle," Blake said.

Thomas nodded. "The killer must've been in a hurry. No time to count the money. He probably just swept the coins up, not noticing one had rolled away."

"Yes, that's how it must've happened," Blake said.

"I've said all along it was Floris, didn't I?" Vila claimed.

Avon smiled at him. "Astounding, how short your memory is."

"We still have another suspect," Blake told him.

"Who?" Thomas asked.

"Father Edmund." Blake sounded vindictive. He must've had a miserable time in the priest's house, Avon reflected.

"What?" Thomas was outraged. "You can't be serious, Brother!"

"He has a violent temper."

"True, but Brother Anselm wasn't struck down in a rage. Nor was Robert. These are premeditated murders, carefully planned. Edmund would not kill for gain. No, Brother Blake, Floris must be our man."


	5. Chapter 5

"My turn again to choose a game."

Cally judged that by now she'd gained enough trust from the two shy girls to put her interrogation plan into operation. It had taken time and effort to make Bridget, who was about seven, and her sister Aldith, about four, to participate in the games. At first they'd just stared at her, hardly daring to reply to her overtures. Cally wondered whether this was due to natural shyness, or to them being treated as pariahs by the more bigoted villagers. She'd gathered that opinions among the villagers about their priest being married differed. Some regarded it as sinful while others approved because it would prevent the priest, who was human after all, from hanky-panky with their own wives and daughters. Cally had considered using her telepathy to try to put the girls at ease, but that would probably have scared them even more. So she'd restricted herself to sending soothing impressions to them, carefully refraining from adding any words.

They were in the garden of the priest's house, every bit of which seemed to be used for growing food. In contrast to the small house, the garden was quite large with the usual components of fruit trees, berry bushes and rows of vegetables. In a pen three pigs were lying lazily in the dried mud. Two of them would be slaughtered for the winter, Bridget had announced cheerfully, while the sow would be kept alive to produce a new litter next year. At the back of the garden Father Edmund could be seen digging up the soil. Wouldn't he get paid by the church or the villagers? she wondered. But maybe his stipend wasn't enough to keep a family.

From the house a baby's wailing could be heard intermittently. The priest's eldest child, the bosom friend of Robert and Ann's son, was nowhere to be seen. Jenna was inside the house, keeping Edmund's woman company. As Jenna's presence had awed the girls into complete silence, Cally had telepathically advised her to go and talk to the children's mother. Jenna had complied, but Cally had sensed her reluctance. Despite her apparent skill in dealing with traders and smugglers, Jenna seemed never at ease when having to make small talk with strangers. Better get on with it. "I like to play a memory game."

"Is that difficult?" Bridget asked doubtfully.

"Difficult?" Aldith, who seemed to have the habit of aping her elder sister, echoed.

"No, but you must concentrate. Do you remember the day of the Feast?"

"Which one?" Bridged asked.

Cally frowned - she hadn't realised there would be more than one feast in the year. But it made sense. Auron also had a number of festivities to mark the different seasons. "The Feast of Saint Os..." She tried to remember the name.

"Oswald," Bridget said. "He's our patron saint."

"Patron saint," her sister echoed.

"That was the day when that Brother came to quarrel with father," Bridget said shyly.

"That's the day I mean." Cally smiled encouragingly at the children. "I see you are good at this game! You've won the first round. Now, for the second round, can you remember the next day - say, the hour before noon. Can you recall what you were all doing then?"

Bridget shrugged. "The same as always."

"Fetching water," her sister said.

"Helping mother with the washing."

"The washing," Aldith echoed.

"So your mother was doing the washing?" Cally felt she had to hurry; the children seemed to be losing interest fast. "And your father?"

"Went to sing mass..."

"That was at daybreak, silly," Bridget chided.

Aldith nodded. "He always says mass at daybreak."

"Yes, but the lady is asking for later." Bridget's earnest grey eyes turned to Cally. "He was here, weeding. I remember him complaining about it - the rain making the weeds grow faster than a man can handle."

"Did he go away, anytime before noon?" Cally asked.

The girls shook their heads solemnly. "He was here all the time," Bridget said.

"All the time," Aldith confirmed.

"You're sure he hasn't been away? And your mother?"

Bridget began to look bored. "She was here too."

Aldith yawned. "I don't like this game."

"You've won." Cally took two pieces of cheese from her pocket. She'd saved them from lunch. "Here's the prize." They took the cheese and devoured it, thanking her through full mouths.

* * *

In the priest's house Jenna sat on the only chair, watching her hostess knead dough. She'd told the woman to go on with her work, as it was clear she felt as uncomfortable about the visit as Jenna did. Despite the open door and window the place stank of sweat and dirty nappies. A corner of the floor held what looked like animal droppings. Cackling chickens were cheerfully roaming all over the place. Jenna could see why Blake had been so reluctant to return to his lodgings! The priest's wife seemed a very shy woman, who was overwhelmed by the presence of a Lady in her simple dwelling. Jenna had given up trying to make conversation with her. The woman was fair-haired, the eyelashes shading her dull blue eyes were so colourless as to be almost invisible. Her face was unhealthily pale and her hands showed blue veins through the skin. She was very thin, with a stooped back that might be caused by her belaboured breathing. Clearly she was not a healthy woman, probably looking much older than she actually was.

A nagging wailing from the wooden cradle indicated that the baby had woken. Jenna had managed to produce the obligatory admiration, although in truth she didn't care for babies. She'd never felt any urge to breed. Well, maybe she'd like to have Blake's child one day, but only if she could take it to a good creche and leave its rearing to the professionals. Idly Jenna watched as the woman wiped her hands on her frock, then picked up the baby with one hand while untying the strings of her bodice with the other. She sat down on a stool and presented the baby her naked breast. It began to suck contentedly. Jenna looked away, feeling oppressed by all this womanliness. For a moment she wished Avon was present, just to see him embarrassed for once.

//Jenna, I have finished.//

With relief Jenna rose, said her good-byes and swiftly exited the house. Outside, she took in deep breaths of fresh air.

"Edmund has an alibi," Cally said, as soon as they'd left the garden. "According to his daughters, he spent the morning weeding."

"If they're speaking the truth."

"I think they are, Jenna. I made the questioning sound like a game. They had no cause to be on their guard."

"Well, that's settled then." Jenna surveyed her surroundings. The priest's house was close to the church which stood above them, on the top of the hill. Flanked by bushes, the path they were on wound down towards the river. Lower on, it crossed the main track through the village. "What now? Back to the manor?"

"No," Cally said. "Let's see whether Agnes has come home yet. We still must talk to her." Cally brought her hand to her head, as if listening to an inner voice. "It's important that we see her. I feel it."

"All right. The men won't be back yet anyway."

"And the weather's fine," Cally said. "It would be a shame to spend such a fine day indoors."

"I prefer Liberator's air-conditioning, but this could be worse," Jenna commented. "Strange, they say it used to be forever raining, yet here we haven't had a drop -"

"Out!" Cally made a dash at the bushes to their left. Two boys ran away. Jenna got an impression of a red head and a blond one. The latter gave a quick glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the wood.

"No use going after them," Jenna said.

"No." Cally looked angry. "I bet that blond one is the priest's son. His girls have the same pointed noses."

"And the other's probably Robert Cross-eye's son," Jenna said. "They must've been eavesdropping."

Cally nodded, resuming her way. "Probably some game."

Following her, Jenna shrugged. "Yes." It didn't seem all that important.

They came to a fork in the path. Cally took the right branch. "I think this must be a short cut."

"But this path leads to the manor," Jenna protested.

"If I remember rightly there's a track that runs behind the manor, joining the West Road further on."

Jenna wasn't so sure, but she was prepared to give Cally the benefit of the doubt. Cally's sense for direction proved right; soon they could see the roofs of the manor complex through the trees. Jenna, who had been a bit apprehensive - the last thing they needed was to get themselves lost - began to relax.

"Lady Jenna!" Startled, she turned, to see Beatrice approaching from a bend in the path. "How fortunate to meet you here." Beatrice looked flushed and happy. "I've just come from the kennel. Mirabella has pupped. Come and see, her young are so cute."

Jenna had seen dogs, on the outer planets where they were still kept, and found them even more unappealing than children. But it would be impolite to refuse. Gritting her teeth, she accepted as gracefully as she could manage. A bout of impishness made her add, "My maid adores dogs."

//I don't, Jenna!//

They followed their hostess to one of the outbuildings. Some kind of barn, Jenna presumed. It was empty - the cattle must be out in the fields - but for a meagre dog lying in the straw. The animal had what looked like a tangled heap of moving sausages clinging to it. Jenna had seen a lot of uglies during her travels - Tarzian Warg Stranglers, Lindorian Locusts, Destinian Centipedes, even a stuffed specimen of a Kairopian Giant Spider - but this dog beat them all. It took all her willpower to go through the motions of admiration while Beatrice embarked on a string of tales about her darling dog's exploits.

"She's such a naughty girl, my Mirabella." The dog growled ominously. Beatrice gave it a benign smile.

Jenna turned on hearing someone enter, glad to take her eyes off the little monsters. It was Lidwyn. "The child is born," she told Beatrice. "About noon. Mother went home straight after the delivery, leaving the aftercare to me. Gundred and the child are fine."

"Praise God," Beatrice said. "What is it?"

"A girl."

"Arnulf won't be pleased with that," Beatrice observed.

Lidwyn shrugged. "Mother says it's better if the first one is a girl. Girls are more likely to pull through than boys."

"That may be true. All right, Lidwyn, you can go back to your duties. Or do you want to report to your mother first?"

"No, lady. Mother will be asleep by now, she's been up half the night. She only sent for me when the time was near."

"All right then, you can go and see her later."

When Lidwyn had left, Beatrice told Jenna, "Agnes is teaching her daughter so she can take over as midwife after her death."

"That sounds sensible." Jenna began to move to the door. "Thank you for letting us see the dog."

"Mirabella needs to rest now," Cally said.

"Yes, dogs are so like humans, aren't they? May I escort you to the house, Lady Jenna?"

"Thank you, but I want to take a walk before dinner."

"Shall I get some of my husband's men to accompany you?"

"That won't be necessary. We won't go far."

"As you wish. I'll see you later, then."

With a sigh of relief Jenna escaped, Cally close on her heels. "Well, at least we know Agnes will be home," Cally remarked.

"But she'll be asleep," Jenna said. "Maybe we'd better not disturb her."

"No, we must see her NOW!" Cally set off at a brisk pace. "It is vital."

Infected by her air of urgency, Jenna followed her. "Why? What can a few hours matter?"

"I don't know." Cally didn't slow down. "But I feel they DO matter."

That famed Auron 'feeling'! Jenna could almost hear Avon's scathing tone. He'd derided Cally for it more than once, although at other times he seemed inclined to take it seriously... Something disturbed her reverie. "What was that?"

Ahead, Cally looked over her shoulder without slowing down. "What?"

"I thought I saw a meteor." Jenna shook her head at her own declaration. "Something burning that went by in a flash."

Blanching, Cally halted. "It fell from the sky?" She must be thinking of the poison on Saurian Major.

"No. It came from the woods. From somewhere above us, to the right."

Looking alarmed, Cally set off again. Jenna hurried to keep up with her. Suddenly she saw a pillar of smoke drift upward from somewhere in front. "Something's burning," Cally said.

Relief mingled with Jenna's concern. "So I wasn't imagining it."

The path made a slight bend, suddenly providing a panoramic view of the landscape spread out in the valley before them. From here the midwife's house, on the edge of the village and surrounded by fields, looked very small. Black smoke billowed from its roof.

"It's a fire!" Jenna exclaimed.

"Come on!" Cally began to run. "We have to help them!"

Jenna hurried after her, but she knew they would be too late.

* * *

Thank the stars they were nearly there, Blake thought, balancing precariously on his horse. He recognised a peculiarly shaped tree that he'd noticed on the way up. Their search of the hut and the surrounding grounds, although thorough and time-consuming, had not yielded anything further. Now they were on their way back to the manor at a sedate pace. Fortunately his horse followed Sir Thomas's without needing much urging from its rider. Avon, with Vila again behind him on the horse, formed the rearguard. It was clear that Avon knew how to ride a horse - some things simply can't be accomplished by bluff alone. Where the HELL had he learned it? Not in an Earth Dome. Horses were used on some primitive planets, but before his conviction Avon had never been away from Earth. Or so he claimed. But what reason could he have for lying about -

"Something's burning!" Thomas exclaimed, kicking his horse. It sprang forward. Blake's followed, nearly throwing him from the saddle. Behind him, he heard Vila wail in protest. Blake couldn't afford to look over his shoulder, he was hanging on to his saddle for dear life! They came out of the wood. Blake blinked against the sudden sunshine. Now he could smell the burning. "It's the midwife's house," Thomas shouted. Blake saw a single, low house stand amidst the green landscape. Smoke and flames billowed from its roof. Thomas's horse halted, whinnying in fright.

Blake's followed suit, again nearly kicking him off. He slid from the saddle and began to run to the house, vaguely aware of Avon calling his name. He reached the house. The low roof, reaching almost to the ground, seemed to be totally aflame. Black smoke came from the open door. "Anybody there?" he shouted. He thought he heard coughing through the roar of the flames. Blake stormed in, bending low. He almost stumbled over a small form kneeling on the floor. Blake grabbed it and dragged it out. He recognised the girl Cally had saved from the river.

"Grandmother," she wheezed between bouts of coughing. "I couldn't wake her."

"Stay here!" He felt a hand grabbing his arm, shook himself free and dived into the smoke again. Emergency safety training came back to mind: 'Keep low! Smoke rises, so the freshest air is near the floor.' Bending down as far as he could, Blake began to traverse the room.

Even below the cushion of smoke he had to fight for air. In the almost total darkness his shin connected painfully with an object. His curse was drowned out by the roar of the flames above his head. Suddenly the darkness was lit by a piece of burning material falling down. It lasted just long enough to show him a bed with a motionless figure on it. Only about two metres away. Blake strode forward, reaching out blindly. He touched textile, then flesh. Taking a firm hold, he began to make his way back, pulling the inert body along. Thick smoke surrounded him. Tears began to stream from his eyes. His lungs seemed to be on fire. Coughing, he pressed on. Then panic gripped him - he'd lost his bearing. Frantically he tried to orientate, but the smoke was engulfing him...

Suddenly he felt a hand on his wrist. Hanging on to his load, he let himself be led. Just when his strength was about to give way, he emerged into daylight. Fresh air filled his lungs. Coughing, he fell down on the grass. Hands were gripping him.

"Blake."

"Jenna." Eyes still streaming with tears, he looked into her worried face.

"Thanks."

"You'll have to thank HIM."

Following her gaze, he saw Avon free himself from the dripping cloth covering his head and face. "Blake, you incredible, unspeakable IDIOT!"

"Glad to see you followed my lead," he managed between bouts of coughing.

"I didn't charge in heedlessly." Avon tossed the blackened cloth at Vila. "Put this back."

Blake watched Vila head for a row of bushes, on which some other pieces of washing were spread out. Would Avon have come in after him if he hadn't found this protection readily available? Better not ponder on that. He began to take in his surroundings. The flames were still roaring, the wind blowing the smoke away in angry gusts. From the village people came running, their shouts carried on the wind. Cally was on her knees, embracing the girl who was still coughing, but clearly alive. Blake cast his gaze to the woman he'd pulled from the house. She was lying in the grass, Sir Thomas squatting at her side. Her face, black with soot, was too still. Blake knew the truth even before Sir Thomas declared, "She's dead." A hand was clamped round his arm. Turning, he was confronted by Avon's scathing stare.

"So, Blake." His voice matched his gaze. "You risked your life for nothing!"

* * *

"It looked like a shooting star," Jenna said.

"It must've been some kind of fire bolt," Cally surmised.

Blake nodded. "The dry thatch must have caught fire immediately." His voice was hoarse from coughing. "An impromptu action."

Avon felt a stirring of excitement. "Our murderer is starting to panic."

"You think Agnes knew something incriminating about the murderer and he set fire to her place to silence her?" Vila asked.

Avon gave him a superior smile. "That is the only logical explanation."

They were in the guestroom. Agnes's body had been brought to the manor, in an outhouse of which her weeping daughters were now preparing the corpse for burial. Beatrice had taken charge of the girl. Sir Thomas was still at the midwife's place, directing the fire fighting.

"From which direction did the bolt come?" Blake asked.

"From the North," Jenna said. "It must have been fired from the wood above the valley."

"But you didn't see anyone?" Avon enquired.

"No," Jenna replied.

"Only those two boys," Cally said. "But that was earlier."

"They were spying on us." Jenna sounded angry.

"This isn't the work of boys," Blake said impatiently.

Cally sat down onto the bed, resting her head in her hands in a gesture of defeat. "I KNEW it was important we talked to Agnes - I felt it."

"Yes," Jenna said. "If only we hadn't been delayed by Beatrice and her infernal pet!"

With cold amusement Avon listened to her account of the fateful meeting. He must remember to add a dog to his list of Presents Intended To Annoy.

"I should have gone ahead while you went to admire the puppies," Cally said.

"You couldn't." Jenna's voice held self-reproach. "It would have looked strange when I'd just told Beatrice how fond you were of dogs."

"If you'd gone on, and been there when that house caught fire, you'd have been killed too," Vila observed.

"Or I could have saved Agnes."

"It's done," Jenna said, visibly shaking off her regret.

"But what can it have been that she knew?" Blake wondered aloud.

Vila shrugged. "Whatever it was, it's too late to ask her now."

Leaning against the windowsill, Jenna frowned in thought. "Maybe we should've taken her hysterics seriously after all."

Avon leaned forward. "What hysterics?"

"Beatrice told me the woman had visions. The day after the murder," Jenna spoke slowly, as if having to recall the words from deep down, "Agnes came to Beatrice blabbing about a distortion of time."

"Those were her words?" Something stirred at the back of Avon's mind. "A distortion of time?"

"Yes."

"Time!" Cally exclaimed. "That must be important. Remember, Jenna, Kathryn spoke about that too."

Jenna nodded. "Time repeating itself, which her grandmother saw as the sign of some religious prophecy."

"Kathryn and Agnes saw Brother Anselm pass on the road," Cally said. "Can that be significant?"

"Time repeating itself... " Suddenly Avon saw the significance. "Of course! He's led us by the nose magnificently! That alibi - it's irrelevant!"

"Because," Blake's sudden excitement showed he'd caught on too, "the murder wasn't committed at that time."

"Congratulations, Blake." Avon produced a quick smile. "Brother Anselm was killed early in the morning."

Vila frowned. "You mean he was killed at the inn and his body then taken to the hut?"

"No," Avon said, "Anselm left the inn alive, probably at daybreak."

"And Agnes saw him pass by," Cally said.

"And later saw him pass once more," Blake added significantly.

"Time repeating itself." Avon nodded. "She interpreted it as a distortion of time."

Cally's eyes began to shine. "Remember what Kathryn said, Jenna - that they'd seen Anselm or 'maybe it was his shadow, following him'."

"His ghost," Jenna exclaimed. "She was as good as telling us he'd passed twice, but we failed to see the significance of her words."

"The murderer must have followed Anselm," Blake said, "probably taking a short cut through the woods. Near the hut he kills his victim, drags his body inside, strips him and leaves the way he came."

"It takes about six hours for rigor mortis to complete. Thomas should have spotted the significance of that - as should I have!" Avon shook his head, angry at his failing. "I also should've realised that an old man with a long journey ahead would want to set out early."

"But that's the point," Vila said. "Anselm was an old man. He needed the rest."

"He'd had the whole of the previous day to rest," Avon countered.

Vila could be tenacious. "Yeah, well, maybe he just didn't fancy getting up early."

Avon dealt him the look he deserved. "Monks are USED to getting up early. And by all accounts Anselm took his vocation seriously."

"But they saw him leave at the inn," Vila persisted. "Lucy did. She wouldn't lie."

"She saw a person in a habit, doubtless with the cowl over his face," Avon said. "Didn't you tell us that Lucy described him as not wanting to look at women? So she wouldn't be surprised if he kept his face away from her."

"Oh yeah... Wait a minute!" Vila's expression changed from petulance to triumph. "She said he didn't greet her when he left, he just shuffled past her. All wrapped up in his cowl, she said, as if he was afraid to look at her."

"Kathryn also mentioned how he was wrapped up in his habit, with his cowl deep over his head," Cally said. "She thought he must be allergic to the sunlight."

"We now know why the murderer took the habit with him," Blake said. "He needed it to pass for his victim later."

"And the horse," Cally observed. "He must have taken Anselm's horse back to the inn. Aelwin may have noticed that."

"But if he did, he can't tell us," Vila pointed out.

"Still, the murderer took a hell of a risk," Jenna said, "stabling the horse and then sneaking into the inn pretending to be Anselm."

"Once inside he was safe," Blake remarked. "All he had to do was stay in Anselm's room until it was time to leave."

"In bed, with the blanket over his head," Vila added. "And when Jack came with the breakfast, he simply told him to leave it on the chest."

"Then, about an hour before noon, he goes out in his disguise," Blake went on. "He mounts Anselm's horse and rides off, past the midwife's house. Once in the wood, he dismounts and sets the horse free, banking on it wandering off. He discards the habit, probably hiding it somewhere. Then he hurries back to the village, in his own clothes which he'd hidden under the habit, and goes about his business. It could have been done within fifteen minutes."

"But who?" Jenna asked.

"Floris," Vila said.

Blake shook his head. "The attack on Agnes means that the murderer knew that his attempt to make Robert look like the killer had failed."

"Why?" Vila asked.

"Because if we'd accepted Robert's guilt, we'd have stopped the investigation. Obviously, the killer didn't consider Agnes a threat before, or he'd have silenced her sooner."

"He knew the villagers didn't take her blabbing seriously," Jenna said. "Even Father Edmund disregarded them. Beatrice told me that he dislikes hysterical women."

"But then WE came along." Avon saw where Blake was heading. "We might start putting two and two together."

"Those boys," Jenna said. "They must have heard us discuss our intention to question Agnes."

"Yes." Cally frowned, visibly trying to recollect her words. "I'd just been saying how important it was that we talk to her, when I spotted them."

"They might have told the murderer," Jenna said.

"He may even have paid them to spy on us," Cally remarked.

"We'll find them and ask them," Blake said. "Anyway, as I said, the only people who knew we hadn't fallen for the ruse to present Robert as the killer, were Sir Thomas and his brother."

Avon sighed. Blake's blindness to facts was astounding. "We were with Thomas at the time of the arson attack. I must've looked the other way while he fired that arrow!"

"His brother wasn't there," Blake snapped. "Don't you see, that must have been why Thomas sent him ahead - to deal with Agnes."

"You mean they're in it together?" Jenna asked.

For a moment Avon found himself stuck for words, an event rare in his life. "This is utter nonsense!"

"Why?" Cally asked. //Instinct, Avon?// Like her gaze at him, her message was half challenge, half gentle mockery.

"Because, as I've said before, if Thomas was the murderer, he'd have embraced the outlaw-theory. No, Cally." He met her gaze straight on. "I think Sir Thomas Pennant is that rare breed - an honest man."

"Blake," Vila piped up, "you said that only Thomas and his brother knew that we hadn't fallen for Robert's guilt. But that's not true. Suicide is a deadly sin here - do you remember that episode of MANOR MAIDENS, Avon, where it looked like the carpenter had hanged himself and the priest refused to bury him in consecrated earth?"

"Of course!" He should have thought of that! "The murderer would've expected Richard to announce Robert's alleged suicide from the rooftops."

Vila nodded vigorously. "The fact that he didn't, told the murderer enough."

"That doesn't exclude Richard," Cally said. "He could still be our man."

Vila shook his head. "I say it's Floris."

"We must not forget Father Edmund," Blake said.

"And Thomas," Jenna added. "As Blake suggested, he could be in cahoots with his brother. You'll have to come up with something better than simple logic, Avon, to convince me of his honesty!"

Avon smiled to himself; they were all overlooking the obvious.

"Right," Blake said. "First we'll have to find those boys, make them reveal their paymaster."

"If there is one," Vila muttered. "They may have been eavesdropping just for fun."

"You think they'll tell you, Blake?" Avon challenged.

"Oh yes, they will!" Blake's tone was uncompromising.

"I doubt it. And even if they do, it'll still be their word against that of the killer. He'll simply deny their accusations. Our opponent is a very clever man."

Blake glared at him. "You have a better idea?"

Avon gave him his most annoying smile. "Yes - catch him in the act."

* * *

Gloom hung thick in the taproom - Vila had seen more festivity at a prison funeral! Lucy wasn't there, she would be tending to her mother's body, of course. And Ann, newly widowed, also had a body to prepare for burial. The men, most of whom Vila did not know, sat huddled together on the benches round the fire, staring into their beer-cups. To his chagrin he didn't see Floris. Richard Pennant was there, though, in earnest conversation with the innkeeper. Jack rose with a distinct tack of enthusiasm. "What can I get you?"

"Wine, please." Vila produced one of his Space City coins. In an impulse he added another. "Take some yourself. You look like death!" Too late he realised his gaffe. "Well, I mean, obviously you've had a rotten day."

"Tomorrow he's going to bury his brother-in-law," one of the villagers said.

Jack held up his hand. "It's all right, Arnulf. Leave him alone." To Vila he added, "I'll get the wine and drink with you."

"Thanks," Vila said, when Jack returned. Raising the cup, he sat down at the end of the bench. "To Robert." Jack took up the toast, the others following his lead with more or less good grace.

"That his death may be avenged," Arnulf said.

This was the opening Vila'd been hoping for. "That will soon come to pass. My Lord is expecting to solve the case tomorrow." Silence fell over the room. Vila found all eyes on him. In a conspiratorial tone he continued, "He's convinced that Agnes knew something that could have led him to the monk's murderer."

"But Agnes is dead," someone pointed out.

"Her granddaughter is alive," Vila said. "She's sleeping at the manor now. Tomorrow my Lord will question her. He is convinced that she'll be able to tell him what he wants to know."

"Lady Beatrice has taken the girl in?" someone asked.

"Yes," Richard replied before Vila had the chance. "Lord Avon has requested my room for her for the night."

Vila nodded. "He wants her to have a good, long, quiet sleep, so she'll be fresh for questioning tomorrow. My Lady's maid is SUPPOSED to keep an eye her, to make sure she's all right."

"Supposed to?" Jack echoed.

Vila lowered his voice. "She'll sneak out for a rendezvous with my Lord. He likes a dalliance in the open air. He's arranged this specially, to get Cally away from his wife. Once my Lady is asleep, he'll tiptoe out and fetch Cally." Vila was beginning to enjoy this. "He's had his eyes on her for a long time, but he has to tread carefully in the presence of my Lady."

His fantasy beginning to flow, Vila regaled his audience with a number of his Lord's colourful exploits. Dusk was falling, the light coming through the open door and windows diminishing notably. Vila began to feel uncomfortable; he never liked the dark. The light of the fire began to cast dancing shadows on the walls.

Seeing all heads turn to the door, Vila felt silent. Avon entered, dark and foreboding. "Vila!" His voice was ominous. "I remember having expressly forbidden you to set foot again in this place!"

Vila jumped up. Prattling, he began to move to the door, taking a detour away from Avon. "I'm sorry, Lord. I must have misunderstood. I thought you meant 'not to set foot again TODAY'. Which would have been yesterday, if you see what I mean..."

He escaped, the crowd's laughter following him. Instinctively he headed for the only spot of light, a fiercely burning torch that had been stuck in the earth a few metres from the door. Sensing Avon close behind him, he cried "Ouch!" just in case Avon had intended a demonstration of his displeasure for their audience's benefit.

"Come on," Avon said, picking up the torch.

"Where did you get that?" Vila asked.

"At the manor, where else?"

Everything looking different in the dark; it took Vila some moments to realise they were heading the wrong way. "The manor's THAT way."

"I know, Vila. Now keep quiet."

That was too much to ask. "Where are we going?" He had to run to keep up with Avon's stride. "I don't like the dark. You know I don't!"

Avon halted so suddenly that Vila nearly bumped into him. "Right, here we can't be seen from the inn. Give me your tools, Vila."

"Hey?"

Avon held out his hand. "Your tools. Don't tell me you didn't bring your 'bag of tricks'!"

"Of course I did." Vila began to fumble with the strings of his purse. Having got them loose he extracted the small case that held his basic kit.

Avon snatched it from his hand. "Hold this." The torch was pushed into his hand. "Watch out, idiot!"

Vila quickly held the burning end away from his clothes. "What are you planning?"

"Now the scene is set to catch the murderer, it's time we relieve him of the burden of his sin." Avon opened the case, held it to the light and extracted a mini laser probe. Vila watched him, suddenly fascinated.

"You mean: take the loot?"

Avon closed the case and pushed it into Vila's free hand. In the dark his smile was sinister. "He won't be needing it, when he's hanging from the gallows, will he?"

Vila tried to ignore the stab of fear the mentioning of the gallows brought on. "You know where he hid it, then?"

"I can make an educated guess." Avon began to undo the strings of his purse. "The best place to hide a stack of coins is to bury them..."

A frown of anger slid over Avon's face. With glee Vila saw that he'd got the purse strings in a tangle. "Hey, I thought that only happened to me!"

Avon glared at him, then continued, "Our murderer is a clever and far-seeing man, therefore he'd choose a place from where he can retrieve his hoard in a hurry."

"And you think this is the place?"

"Yes. It's between the inn and the road but hidden from sight of both. This light soil is easy to dig into without leaving traces. And the place has a number of characteristics that makes for easy reference."

"You mean like those treasure maps - fifty steps due West from the forked tree?"

"Yes. He'd want to be able to find the right place again."

Vila eyed the glade with dismay. "Still, it's a hell of a large place to search."

"Not with the right equipment." Avon had got his purse open at last.

In disbelief Vila saw him extract his Liberator gun. "You want to blast the place?"

"No, I'm going to adapt this."

"Into what? A spade?"

"You'll see. Get that torch nearer - I need light!"

Impatiently Vila watched Avon tinker. He wished he knew what he was up to! And that he'd hurry - the old fear of the open was creeping up again. A strange noise made him start. "Did you hear that?"

"An animal, no doubt."

"An animal?" Vila didn't feel reassured. "You mean something that bites?"

"Don't worry, it won't come near us."

"How can you be sure of that?"

"The light will keep it away. Now shut up!" Avon prodded some more with his probe, then handed the tool back to Vila.

Still holding the torch, Vila tried to put the probe back in its case one-handedly without success. At last he dropped tool and case separately into his purse. Looking up again, he saw Avon connect the gun to its power pack.

"There." When a soft humming started to emerge from the gun, Avon gave a satisfied grin.

"What is it?" Vila asked.

"A metal detector. A very crude concept, but it should be able to spot a hoard of silver coins." Vila found the gun thrust into his hand. "Start over there, then work systematically forward. Give me the torch."

"Why do I have to do the hard work?"

"Because one of us has to hold the torch, to prevent you from stumbling over the nearest root. And since we can't afford to set the forest on fire, it had better be me."

Muttering, Vila followed Avon to the designated spot. "This is going to take us the whole night. I bet you're wrong, that he did the sensible thing and stacked the coins under his mattress. I mean, why would he want to -"

Falling silent, Vila stared at the gun. Its monotonous humming had changed to an agitated clicking.

"Hold it there," Avon said.

"You mean this is the spot?"

Avon dropped to his knees. "We'll soon find out." He put the torch into the earth at his side and began to dig with his hands. Vaguely relieved that he wasn't asked to dirty his hands, Vila watched him, still not daring to hope that he was right.

"I feel cloth." For once-Avon sounded excited. "AND coins. This must be it."

He pulled out a linen contraption that looked puffed to its seams. Not just a waistband purse as Vila had envisaged, but with shoulder straps to spread the weight. Avon undid the strings and took out a coin.

Vila recognised it at once. "It's the same as the one I found in the hut."

"Yes." Avon held the coin to the light. "Two hundred and ninety-nine ancient coins, each worth a fortune to a collector!"

"We can sell them separately!" Vila saw the beauty of the scheme. "If we don't let the prospective buyers know we've got more than one, we can drive up the price."

"Yes." Avon put the coin back.

"Aren't you going to count them?"

"Later. Hold this." The money belt was pushed into Vila's hands. It was so heavy he nearly dropped it. Avon undid his belt and pulled his tunic over his head. He snatched the money belt from Vila's grasp and put it on over his sweater.

"Hey," Vila belatedly protested. "I want my share."

"Later, Vila."

"I'm entitled to half, Avon."

"Yes."

Vila frowned, trying to gauge his thoughts. But Avon seemed in earnest. Well, there was such a thing as honour among thieves, Vila reflected. And for all his airs, Avon was just as much a crook as he was! Avon had donned his tunic again. Fastening the buckle of his belt, he said, "Time to return to the manor. You stay out of sight, Vila, while I fetch Cally. It's a good thing Richard's room has its own outside door, that'll make it easy for the murderer."

"You think he'll come?" Vila asked.

"If you've done your job properly."

"Oh yes, Avon, I told them what you told me to say. But Floris wasn't there."

"I know. Sir Thomas told me he's disappeared. When his men went to arrest him, they found him gone."

"What?" Vila could hardly believe his ears. "But, who's the trap for, then?"

"The murderer."

"You mean it isn't Floris?"

"Right in one, Vila."

"But, then, where is he?"

"That depends. Floris either followed his instinct in time, running as fast and far as he could. In which case he should be safe."

"Or else?" Vila prompted when Avon seemed disinclined to continue.

"Or else," Avon gestured at the dark trees surrounding them, "he's here somewhere, dead and buried."

* * *

Standing against the wall in Richard's room, Jenna tried not to fidget. "Not long now," Blake whispered, as if sensing her impatience.

He was standing next to her, at the hinged side of the door. Since it opened inward, the door would hide them from the view of any entrant. The place was faintly lit by the small lamp hanging above the bed. It was just enough to see the details, now Jenna's eyes had become used to the dark.

"I hope you're right," she growled.

//Be quiet, please,// Cally warned. She was sitting at the bedside.

Almost lost in the large bed, Kathryn was sleeping. Blake had suggested they use a dummy, but Avon had vetoed that, arguing that a fake would not fool the killer. In the end Avon had got his way, a fact Jenna found very disquieting. It seemed as though, away from Liberator, Avon was subtly gaining authority at Blake's expense. Granted, Blake's method of charging in, making accusations left, right and centre, had not been much of a success. It almost seemed as if he was too impatient to stop and think. That was it - he didn't give himself time to think. To him this murder investigation was an irritation, interfering with his fight against the Federation. For that reason he wanted it solved as quickly as possible. His innate desire for justice would prevent him from wanting the wrong man convicted, but in his heart he didn't really care who'd done it or why. Jenna frowned. Was Blake's impatience restricted to this, or was it affecting his other actions too? With hindsight, his idea to enlist the Terra Nostra's help hadn't been one of his brightest. Jenna sincerely hoped his drive to bring down the Federation wasn't going to cloud his judgement...

A soft whistle sounded from outside, breaking off her reverie. Cally rose. //That's Avon. Now be watchful!// Jenna caught her encouraging smile while she moved to the door. //He WILL come, Jenna.//

Frowning, she watched Cally leave, the door falling softly shut behind her. So much for the Auron's assertion that she was unable to read the minds of non-telepaths! Jenna had always doubted that statement. The whole thing was all the more irritating since she still found it difficult to read Cally. Jenna tried to relax the muscles of her shoulders in order to get rid of a sudden cramp. This could become a long night. Personally, she doubted that the murderer would walk into the trap. For one thing, as she'd argued when they were discussing Avon's plan, he might actually not be callous enough to kill a child. Avon had countered that he hadn't hesitated to set fire to the house, which would have killed the girl anyway but for Blake's heroic though foolish act. Angered, Jenna had pointed out that arson needed less callousness than killing a child with one's bare hands. She was still half convinced that Sir Thomas was the killer, in which case the trap - set up with his knowledge - was a waste of time. Richard had merely been told to put his room at Kathryn's disposal. All too willing to please the houseguests in exchange for their silence about his unsavoury hobby, he'd departed to spend the night at the inn. Jenna found it easy to despise Richard, yet she couldn't see him as a ruthless killer. No, after Sir Thomas she'd put Floris second on her list. After all, he HAD killed before. But they also shouldn't disregard Father Edmund...

She tensed, catching footsteps outside. They were very faint, as if someone tried to approach in stealth. She looked at Blake, who nodded. So he'd caught it too. Jenna pushed her back against the wall, ready for the attack. The door was pushed open very slowly. Jenna's heart began to beat faster - up to now she'd not really believed it would happen. The door was left open. In the near dark a hooded figure came into her view. Not looking aside, the intruder tiptoed straight to the bed. His face remained hidden in the shadow of his hood. Not Father Edmund, this person was less tall. He seemed too large and muscular for Richard, and the gait was not right. So, this must be Floris, the only one of their suspects she'd never seen in person.

From where she stood, Jenna had a clear view of the bed. The intruder halted at its side. He picked up a pillow and pushed it over the girl's face.

Blake jumped forward, his arm reached out and he dealt the intruder a mighty blow. Jenna hastened to remove the pillow. Kathryn had woken, eyes full of fear and incomprehension. She began to cry. Catching the sound of a struggle, Jenna turned. Blake was wrestling with the intruder, trying to force his arms up his back. That blow should have felled an ox, the man must have a wooden skull!

Dropping the pillow, Jenna rushed to Blake's aid. This wasn't a time for niceties. She kicked the man where it hurt. Howling, the intruder stopped struggling, bending double and nearly sliding from Blake's grip. Jenna was aware of people rushing in. Cally ran to the crying child. Avon's hand came down on the intruder's neck. The man collapsed.

From the corner of her eye Jenna saw Cally bend over Kathryn, who stopped crying. Vila entered warily. His face lit up at the sight of the figure on the floor. The man lay on his side, his face still hidden in the shadow of his hood.

"You've got him, then!"

"Is the girl all right?" Blake asked Cally.

"Yes, she's unharmed. Only shocked and frightened." Cally took the girl into her arms. With the resilience of youth Kathryn began to wipe her eyes.

Avon prodded her assailant's unconscious body with his toe. "I knew we'd be able to stop him in time."

Jenna bent down to remove the intruder's hood. Taking in the square, snub-nosed face, blond curls and reddish beard, she observed, "So this is the murderer, Floris?"

Avon turned his gaze on her. "Don't tell me you still haven't worked it out!"

"That isn't Floris," Vila said.

"It's Jack," Blake declared. "Jack Bull, the innkeeper."


	6. Chapter 6

"It was obvious," Avon said. Watching him pace the guestroom, Cally was reminded of his performance on the Ortega. No chance this time of the murderer turning the tables! Sir Thomas had taken the innkeeper into custody, his archers wouldn't give him the opportunity to escape. Thomas was probably interrogating him at this very moment; the Under-Sheriff didn't strike her as a man to put things off. Beatrice and Joanna having taken care of Kathryn, the five of them had retired to the guestroom. "Once we knew the alibi was void," Avon continued, "it was clear that the murderer-"

"Had to be the person who'd set up the alibi," Blake fell in.

"And by fabricating an alibi for the whole village," Jenna said, "he automatically created one for himself."

"Yes, it was clever," Avon remarked.

"We fell for it." Blake sounded bitter. "I never for a moment suspected him."

"We also failed to see the significance of the peephole," Cally said with belated insight. "We considered the possibility of Jack letting others take a look, but failed to spot the obvious - that he'd use it himself."

"Yes." Avon smiled at her. "Since it's situated in Jack's room, he's in the best position to use it. I imagine he routinely checked on his guests."

Vila suddenly grinned. "He must have got a mighty shock, when he took a routine peep and saw Anselm with that loaded money belt!"

Cally thought she caught Avon casting him a warning glance. It was so quick, she couldn't be sure she hadn't been imagining it.

"Jack," Avon said, "also was in the best position to bring off the impersonation of brother Anselm. No need for him to hide in his victim's room. He simply went about his business. And when the time came, he brought Anselm's breakfast to the empty room."

"Where he changed," Jenna said, "leaving the room dressed in Anselm's habit."

"And keeping his face away from Lucy," Vila added.

"But wouldn't she have noticed the difference in stature and walk?" Cally asked.

"She probably didn't look further than the habit," Blake said. "Maybe Jack imitated his victim's walk. But remember, Lucy had no reason to be suspicious."

Avon nodded. "Another clue we failed to spot was that only Jack could have plied Floris with enough alcohol to get him drunk." A frown clouded his features for a moment. "Floris told me the ale seemed to be coming his way. I should've seen it then, but the significance didn't strike me until later."

"You mean," Vila said, "Jack wanted to get Floris drunk, to get him out of the way?"

"So he wouldn't be there to witness Jack helping Anselm onto his horse and waving him good-bye at daybreak," Jenna added.

"And see Jack take a horse shortly thereafter," Blake said. "And return an hour or so later with his own horse AND Anselm's."

It still seemed an enormous gamble to Cally. "Wouldn't he have run the risk of someone else seeing him?"

"No," Vila replied. "Those stables are at the back, well away from the other buildings."

"And the wood begins right behind them," Blake added. "It was easy for Jack to sneak off from there without anyone noticing."

"Except for that deaf guy," Vila said. "But he can't speak."

"Actually," Avon observed, "I think Jack originally planned to frame the murder on Floris. That was why he took his knife. His intention was to stab Anselm in his room during the night while Floris was sleeping off his hangover."

That made sense to Cally. "If Floris's knife had been found in the body, no-one would have doubted his guilt."

"Especially since he's stabbed and killed someone before," Jenna said.

Blake nodded. "And if Floris was drunk enough not to remember anything, he might well have believed he'd actually done it - and forgotten where he'd hidden the money."

"Yes," Avon said. "But Jack had to change his plan when Lucy saw him take the knife. He realised he could still make use of Floris's absence. But without someone at hand to blame, it became essential that the murder would take place away from the village. So he adapted his plan, hoping that the murder would be attributed to outlaws."

"And he fabricated a herculanium alibi," Vila said, "for the wrong time."

Jenna suddenly frowned. "I wonder what made his brother-in-law suspect him. I take it Robert was murdered because he threatened to denounce him?"

"Yes," Avon said. "It must have been the state of the body. We can assume that Robert came upon it about an hour before Thomas did, and he also found rigor mortis already completed. These people live with death, they must recognise the symptoms."

"You mean," Jenna said, "Robert realised that, since the body must have been dead longer than was assumed, Jack must have been lying about the time Anselm left the inn?"

"And therefore," Vila added triumphantly, "he had to be the murderer."

"Maybe," Cally suggested, thinking it over calmly, "Robert didn't realise at once that something was amiss. He may have heard only later about the time Anselm was supposed to have left the inn."

Avon nodded. "Now that makes sense."

"Suppose," Blake said, "that initially Robert had no reason for suspicion. Then, maybe quite by chance, he hears something about the time Anselm was seen leaving the inn."

"He may have become aware of that only this morning," Avon said. "Remember his dismay when you accused him, Blake. 'At NOON?' he said. We assumed he was upset because of the accusation..."

"But it could have been the news of the alleged time of Anselm's death." Blake began to gnaw on his finger. "Yes, it's likely he didn't know the assumed time until I told him."

Avon looked extremely satisfied. "And then Robert calls upon Jack to confirm his good name. He hails Edmund too, but probably just because the priest is there. It's JACK his words are aimed at, when he says he won't take the blame for another man's deed."

"But why didn't he tell you Jack had to be the killer?" Jenna asked.

"In this society family bonds, even between in-laws, are much closer than in our time," Avon replied. "Maybe he didn't want to be disloyal to his wife's brother."

"Perhaps he wasn't yet sure of his facts," Cally said.

Vila nodded empathetically. "If Avon's right, he'd only just worked it out."

"He must have confronted Jack at the first opportunity," Blake said.

Cally felt a surge of sympathy for the victim. "I think Robert tried to convince him to give himself up." Catching Avon's special smile that usually preceded a sneer about Auron feeling, she warned him: //Don't you DARE say it!// He raised his eyebrows in mock indignation, but she could sense his amusement. "And hand over the money."

Cally suddenly had a strong feeling about the money, as if the coins were close. A bit shaken, she went on, "Jack agrees. He says he's hidden the money in the hut and suggests they go together to retrieve it."

"Blake actually told Jack we would go and search the hut that afternoon," Avon said. "That must have given him the idea to use the hut as rendezvous."

"But he would've had very little time to set it up," Jenna remarked.

Avon shrugged. "Obviously enough."

"They must've used horses," Blake said. "Walking would've taken too long. Jack must've taken the money with him, together with Anselm's habit. When they arrive, he tells Robert to tether the horses while he gets the money from its hiding place. Jack places the coins on the floor. When Robert enters and kneels down to count them, Jack throws the line round his neck and strangles him. Then he retrieves the money, not noticing that one coin has rolled away."

"We've been through all that," Avon said impatiently. He seemed loath to dwell on the matter of the money, usually a subject close to his heart, Cally mused.

"Jack then dresses Robert in the habit and uses its cord to hoist him onto the beam," Blake continued, unruffled. "Then he leaves on his horse, taking Robert's with him."

"Why not leave Robert's horse at the hut?" Jenna asked.

"Greed," Avon said. "The horse might free itself from its tether and run off. Jack's an avaricious man, he wouldn't want to run the risk of losing a good horse. But it meant he had to silence Floris, if he found him still around."

"Why?" Vila asked.

"Because of the horses," Cally said, suddenly seeing the logic in all its ugliness. "Floris would've witnessed two riders leave and only one return, with two horses."

"Exactly," Avon said. "Once Robert's body was found, Jack couldn't rely on Floris to keep quiet about that."

"He wouldn't want to be connected with Robert's last journey in any way," Jenna observed.

Vila nodded. "It would raise too many questions."

"Apart from that," Avon said, "Blake had made it clear to Jack that we had doubts bout Floris's alibi. So if by any chance Robert's alleged suicide failed to convince us, Floris's disappearance might be taken as guilt."

"Remember, Avon," Blake said, "how Jack first said no, when I asked him whether Floris had had the opportunity for the killing. Then he changed his mind. He even told us about Floris's former conviction, subtly strengthening our suspicion. That must've been the point where he decided it would be possible, if necessary, to frame the murder on Floris after all."

"So you think Floris is dead, Avon?" Cally asked.

"Unless he started to run in time."

"Let's hope he did." Cally felt sad. "Jack's greed has already cost too many lives."

"Ultimately, it'll cost him his own," Avon said. "Tomorrow Thomas will take him to town and hand him over for trial. No doubt he'll be convicted and hanged."

"That's not our concern." Blake pulled up his sleeve. "We've done our bit." Pressing the button on his teleport bracelet, he said, "Orac, we solved the case. Now get us up!"

Nothing happened. Vila groaned.

Cally tried to swallow her disappointment. //Do not despair, Blake.// "Maybe there's something else that has to be done."

"Or Liberator isn't in the right position to retrieve us," Avon suggested.

"Or Orac has dumped us," Jenna said.

Blake shook his head with more conviction than he felt, Cally sensed. "Gan wouldn't let him."

"Gan may not be aware of what happened," Jenna countered.

Blake turned to Avon. "Right, you'd better start thinking about a way to contact Liberator!"

"Yeah, Avon," Vila said. "You're supposed to be a genius, aren't you?"

"If we ever get back," Jenna said, "the first thing to do is dump Orac! Gan had the right idea about that."

"Oh, I'll do some extensive reprogramming on that machine," Avon promised grimly.

"We'd better take a rest first," Cally suggested. //It's been a long day, Blake.//

"I agree," Jenna said.

"Yes," Avon concurred. "Right now I'm too tired for constructive thinking."

"All right." Blake stroked the stubble on his chin. "I told Edmund not to wait up for me, so I'll have to stay the night here." The thought seemed to cheer him up.

Vila eyed the bed warily. "That won't hold five comfortably."

"Then you can sleep on the floor, Vila," Jenna told him.

"No need," Avon said, picking up a candle. "As Beatrice has taken the girl with her and Richard's still at the inn, I'll take his bed. Goodnight."

"Yeah, good idea." Vila began to follow him.

Halting, Avon turned in the doorway. "I can do without your snoring, Vila."

"I'm supposed to be your valet, aren't I? We mustn't arouse suspicion." Avon gave him a hard stare. Vila's face took on an expression of exaggerated innocence. Cally was again aware of a strong current of conspiracy between them.

"All right." Shrugging, Avon sailed out, Vila trotting after him. Cally stared at the door falling shut behind them.

"Something's going on between them." Blake gave a tired grin. "Not THAT, I'm sure."

It took her a moment to catch his meaning. //That's not funny, Blake!// She saw him raise an eyebrow in mock surprise. //You humans have such a peculiar sense of humour.//

"Maybe," Jenna said, "Vila suspects Avon of planning to return to Liberator without us."

Blake nodded. "That could be it."

"I suppose so. Vila always expects to be cheated." But Cally didn't feel convinced. Jenna began to untie her dress. "He may be right this time."

"No, Jenna. Avon won't abandon us!" That was something Cally was absolutely certain of.

"We know how much he covets Liberator," Jenna said.

Blake folded his arms. "Not at the cost of leaving us stranded."

"I hope you're right," Jenna commented grimly. "Vila won't stop him."

"Let's hope," Blake said, "that Avon will find a way to contact Liberator."

"It's like..." Cally tried to put her hunch into words. "Like this case isn't over yet. I feel there's something else we must do. Something important." The answer seemed to be hovering at the back of her mind, but maddeningly it kept eluding her.

* * *

Breakfast was a subdued affair, the solving of the murder overshadowed by the loss of lives it had cost. Only Avon and Vila seemed genuinely satisfied, Blake reflected. He could almost hear Avon purr behind his cold facade and Vila exuded an unusual air of achievement. One would expect him to be worried sick about the future, stranded in this primitive society without food, shelter or money...

Aware that his host was speaking, Blake cast his attention to him. Thomas looked as though he hadn't had much sleep. The Under-Sheriff was thanking them for their help in solving the crime. Guided by God, was the expression he used. Blake smiled grimly to himself - if only he knew the truth!

"What will happen to Kathryn?" Cally asked.

"She can stay with us until her aunt marries," Beatrice said.

"Lidwyn is betrothed to Will Carpenter's son. We'll need to bring the wedding forward."

Jenna raised her eyebrows. "Why is that?"

"Why, Lady Jenna, so she can take up her mother's task as midwife. A midwife has to be married or a widow. Isn't that the case in Wales?"

"Not necessarily," Jenna said hesitantly.

"We'll rebuild Agnes's house," Thomas said, "and they can set up house there." His wife nodded. "And maybe Lucy will marry some day."

"You mean she isn't?" Vila asked. "Who's Kathryn's father, then?"

"A minstrel who came to the inn, seven years ago this summer. He stayed for a single night, but that was enough. When he'd gone, Lucy found herself pregnant."

While Beatrice was speaking, Thomas's archers entered, looking equally as though they'd been up all night. One of them went to the Under-Sheriff and whispered something in his ear. Blake saw Richard lean over to catch the words. Thomas nodded and gestured to his men to sit down and partake in the meal. "My men have found the body of Floris," Thomas announced.

Avon nodded. "I was afraid he would turn up dead. Jack was banking on Floris's disappearance being taken as his guilt."

"Jack has confessed to killing him," Thomas said. "He pointed out the spot where he buried him. It seems he didn't lie about THAT."

Blake didn't miss the emphasis. "What did he lie about, then?"

"The money, Brother Blake. He showed us the spot where he said he buried it - it was the first thing we made him do. We've been digging for half the night, but in vain."

//Blake, that's it,// sounded Cally's voice in his head. //That's why Orac hasn't retrieved us yet. To close the case, we need to find the money!//

"We'll continue today," Thomas went on, "but I doubt we'll find anything." A frown clouded his features. "Yet I'd have sworn he wasn't lying. Still, the Sheriff's torturer will get the truth out of him."

Blake caught Vila casting a nervous glance at Avon, whose face suddenly seemed hewn out of stone. Of course! Avon's cold satisfaction, Vila's excited contentment - they'd found the money! Avon must've worked out where it was and appropriated it, last night while they were waiting for the murderer. Blake studied Avon. It was difficult to judge because of the wide folds of his tunic, but Avon's waistline seemed to have expanded. Blake nodded to himself. That was why Avon had chosen to spend the night in Richard's room, away from prying eyes. And why Vila had insisted on accompanying him - he'd want to keep an eye on the money Avon was carrying! It also explained Vila's lack of worry about the future; the money would have kept them going for quite a while. Blake took deep breath.

Eyeing Avon steadily, he said, "I'm afraid we've unwittingly mislead you, Sir Thomas. Lord Avon worked out the location of the money yesterday, shortly before we apprehended Jack. Not realising you'd set out to retrieve it so quickly, he's taken to safekeeping."

Vila suddenly looked sick. Avon's face remained impassive but his eyes were blazing. Blake was reminded of the old saying: IF LOOKS COULD KILL...

Slowly, Avon began to undo the clasp of his belt. "Brother Blake is right, Sir Thomas. I did underestimate your zeal and dedication to your work." He pushed his belt into Vila's hands, who took it automatically. Avon reached under his tunic, seemed to have trouble untying strings, then produced a fat money belt with shoulder straps. He tossed it over to the Under-Sheriff. "You'll find the sum intact, except for the one coin we found in the hut, of course."

Blake saw Jenna glare at Avon. She would be rightly guessing that he wouldn't have shared the loot with her. Cally looked disappointed, then visibly shook off her mood. //We have to take him as he is, Blake.//

True, Blake thought. He was reminded of their silent hassle over the gemstones in Largo's office. That had been play-acting, as Avon couldn't really have been expecting to be allowed to keep them. This time Avon's resentment was real. Blake had the feeling he wasn't going to forgive him in a hurry.

Thomas had caught the belt. Apparently unaware of the tensions, he said, "Please accept my heartfelt thanks, Lord Avon. Your help in solving this sorry case has been invaluable, as has yours, Brother Blake. I imagine you're eager to return home, but if you'd like to postpone your journey I'd be happy to provide -"

He broke off as a servant entered, followed by a monk. "Sir, this good Brother has just rode in. He says we're expecting him."

The monk, a thickset, barrel-chested, grey-haired man walking with a rolling gait, nodded in greeting. "Sir Thomas, I'd intended to get here last night, but my horse went lame and I decided to spend the night in a hut along the road."

Blake swiftly reached for his bracelet. Pressing the communicator button, he saw his crewmembers do the same. Perfectly synchronised, five voices said, "Bring us up, Orac!"

The monk gazed at them with intense curiosity. "My name is -"

The scene began to shimmer. For a moment Blake took in the stunned expressions of those left behind, then the picture dissolved.

* * *

Vila held his breath - it was taking long again... To his unspeakable relief he saw Liberator's teleport bay solidify round him. "Oh, am I glad to be back!" He stepped from the bay along with the others.

Blake reached for the communicator. "Gan, we're back."

"That's quick."

"Quick?" Jenna said into the communicator.

"Why, yes - you've been gone less than half an hour." Vila heard Avon mutter some technical term that was probably meant to explain the difference in elapsed time. "Did you succeed in your negotiations?" Gan asked.

"No." Blake shut the com-link and turned to the cause of his failure, still on the console. "Orac, you have some explaining to do!" Vila involuntary winced in sympathy; Blake sounded even angrier than when he'd taken him to task after his unauthorised trip to Space City.

*It was a rewarding experiment.* Orac sounded unrepentant. *Quite fascinating!*

"Not the expression I would've chosen," Jenna commented.

"You were supposed to take us to Simantran, Orac," Cally said.

*That would have been a wasted journey. The Simantrans disapprove of rebels. They would never have agreed to Blake's propositions.*

"Then why didn't you tell us so?" Vila asked.

*That information is readily available. It is not my fault if you are too lazy to do your own research.*

"Orac," Blake snapped. "I TOLD you to let us know what you're planning! I don't want you to set up experiments on your own initiative."

*You humans are so limited! Thanks to me you have taken part in a momentous scientific breakthrough, and all you can do is complain.* The machine sounded peeved.

"So you've proven that time travel is possible," Avon said. "What made you choose that particular period?"

*While on a routine perusal of files I came upon the transcript of an obscure Medieval chronicle about a so-called miracle. It was written by an English monk called Richard Pennant -*

"Sir Thomas's brother," Cally exclaimed.

"He's a clerk, not a monk," Vila said.

*The event described in his chronicle caused him to enter the cloister,* Orac explained. *It is about God sending his Saints from heaven to solve the murder of a monk. After completing their task, the Saints ascended before the eyes of the chronicler and his family.*

"The teleportation," Blake said.

*That is correct. To the uninitiated, it may look like a miracle but of course I saw its significance in relation to Faulkner's Law.*

"A trace left by time travellers," Jenna said.

*Exactly. What immediately caught my attention was the resemblance between the mentioned saints and certain members of Liberator's crew. For example, Saint Margaret is described as very beautiful, with brown eyes and fair, wavy hair falling onto her shoulders. She is of royal bearing and natural grace.*

Vila's gaze turned to Jenna. "Sounds like the old lecher took a good look at you."

*Saint Catherine,* Orac continued, *is slim and graceful like a hind, with comely dark curls and hazel eyes that see straight into one's mind.*

"An astute assessment," Avon said.

Orac made a sound as if clearing its throat. *The chronicler seems to have cast less attention to the men, but he describes Saint Oswald as assertive, forthright and vigorous.*

"Now WHO could that be?" Avon muttered, casting Blake an assessing look.

*The archangel Michael was a true knight: dark, commanding and noble.* Avon snorted, but Vila got the impression he was secretly pleased with the description.

*While Saint Boniface -*

"Bonny face," Vila said. "I like that!"

*Boniface,* Orac repeated, *was kind and clever.*

"Which is the point where Richard's power of observation breaks down," Avon said.

Vila grinned. "You're jealous, Avon."

"If you think I can find anything in you to be jealous about -"

"He doesn't call YOU clever, now does he?"

"Shut up, you two," Jenna said.

"Did those people have many Saints?" Cally asked.

"Yes," Blake replied.

"Lots," Vila answered simultaneously.

"I wonder," Avon said, "why Richard picked out those particular saints."

*That is partly explained...* Orac sounded less impatient than usual, Vila noticed. Must be eager to show off his brilliance! *The chronicler reasons that God would have chosen village's patron saint as leader, and since 'Brother Blake' was the main investigator, it follows he had to be Saint Oswald. Saint Oswald of Northumbria, that is, not his namesake of Worcester. For his task Oswald would need a powerful assistant, hence the archangel who is often depicted as a winged knight with a flaming sword.*

Caught by a sudden vision of Avon in chain mail with wings sticking out of his back, Vila collapsed in giggles. Through his tears of laughter he saw Cally cast Avon a mischievous smile. Avon glared at her, making Vila wonder what she'd been telepathing.

*The chronicler relates the visiting lady's fairness and aristocratic bearing,* Orac continued, *to Saint Margaret of Antioch, a woman of noble birth and legendary beauty. Moreover, Saint Margaret is the patroness of childbirth, and the fact that the lady of the manor came into labour soon after the visit, giving birth to twins, is seen as confirmation of the Saint's identity. The chronicler further argues that the saint rescuing little Kathryn had to be the girl's name saint, Catherine of Alexandria. Not to be confused,* the machine went on, displaying a capacity for giving more information than required, *with Saint Catherine of Sienna who, of course, at that time had not yet been born.* Orac fell silent.

"What about me?" Vila asked.

*The link between you, Vila, and Saint Boniface is not explained and therefore remains obscure.*

"Maybe it IS just the bonny face," Jenna said.

*That is impossible since the word 'bonny' would not have been known to the chronicler.*

"A perception of humour is one of the few things impossible to program into a computer, Jenna," Avon said. "Even in the most sophisticated machine."

"Orac," Blake asked, "why wasn't news of the so-called miracle spread far and wide? Such an event should have caused pilgrims to flock to the village."

*It did, for a while,* Orac replied. *But when no further miracles occurred, the place lost its attraction, especially after the murder of Thomas Becket, less than twenty years later, which made Canterbury the focus of pilgrimage. When the village's inhabitants were wiped out during the Great Plague, and the village itself vanished from the map, all memory of the miracle was lost.*

"Plague!" Vila felt horrified; plague was one of his main fears ever since, as a child, he'd seen a documentary about the Black Death. "You mean that all those people perished?" An even worse thought occurred to him. "WE may have caught it too!?"

*Of course not! The first outbreak of bubonic plague in England didn't occur until two centuries later!*

"But the people who were living in the village at that time, all died?" Jenna asked.

"They must have been the descendants of the ones we met," Cally remarked, looking sad. "A whole community wiped out."

*That is correct. Of those living in the village none survived,* Orac said. *But not all descendants of the people you met perished. For example, those of the girl Kathryn had taken up residence elsewhere long before the plague emerged. They survived and her line can be traced to the present day. In fact, she is one of Avon's ancestors.*

"AVON?" For a moment Vila couldn't believe his ears. This was too good to be true! "You mean he's from such humble stock - the illegitimate daughter of a barmaid?" An even more amusing thought presented itself. "Orac, does this mean that if Cally hadn't rescued Kathryn from the river, and the girl had drowned, Avon would never have been born?"

*Along with hundreds of others, yourself among them, Vila,* Orac replied, sounding distinctly smug. *YOU are also descended from her.*

"What? You mean Avon and I are related?" A warm glow of anticipation rose in Vila. What an opportunity for teasing! "Avon and I are cousins?"

"A crude simplification," Avon hissed.

Vila began to laugh. "COUSINS," he repeated, determined to rub it in. Avon's glare was wholly satisfying.

THE END 


End file.
